The Burdens We Bear
by Salmagundi
Summary: Seven words to end a nation: "It wasn't supposed to be like this". They can only watch as America falls apart at the seams. UKxUS CanadaXUS Implied Other/US Mpreg. Civil War Fic. Update: Now with Deleted Scenes
1. Chapter 1

The Burdens We Bear (1/?)

Author's Note: This was written for the Hetalia Kink Meme. The prompt was "America has complications in childbirth". Naturally this is an mpreg. Don't like, don't read. That is all.

-

-June 18, 1863-

He couldn't believe that he was even here, that he'd agreed to all of this nonsense. America was clutching his hand in a vicegrip, strong enough that Matthew could feel the bones in his fingers beginning to creak but he manages to bury his wince in a trembling smile. God... even after all the things Alfred had put him through in the last century, this was hard to watch. He ached to escape back north and put some distance between himself and his brother's internal affairs but he couldn't pull away - wouldn't. Not even when his brother swore at him, when he felt Alfred's fist jab into his chest, the motion short, jerky. If Alfred hadn't already been so weak, it would have left a deep bruise, as it was, Matthew eclipsed the pain with his worry.

Trembling fingers reached up to brush a few sweat dampened strands of hair away from his brother's eyes - the tender motion causing America to still for a moment. Blue eyes flitted to meet Matthew's violet ones, the normally clear hue foggy. His glasses had been put aside several hours ago, once the both of them had realised that this was not going to be a short labor.

Canada hadn't been expecting it to last this long - though he'd never been there for any of the others - as little as he knew of the matter, it was clear to him that this wasn't normal.

Alfred shifted again, still crouched, knees spread to accommodate the tight swell of his belly. One hand went back to the ground to brace himself, his forehead resting on his Matthew's shoulder. The Canadian didn't have to see his brother's expression to know how difficult this was, he could feel it in the slight shakiness of America's limbs. His hand rubbed gently at Alfred's back, worry forming a tight knot in his chest. "Al... don't you think we should get Arthur?" Matt's voice was soft, as if he could disguise the slight tremble if only he didn't speak too loud. Arthur would know how to deal with this...

"No!" Even though he'd been partially expecting it, he was still caught off-guard by the force of his brother's voice. Alfred's head jerked up, his blue eyes glittering with rage and fever, and despite his resolve, Matt recoiled a little at the venomous look on his brother's face. America's cheeks were red with exertion, red with anger, and the look he was giving could have torn a hole through his twin's skull. But it was when the other nation lowered his head, presenting Canada with a view of his unruly, sweat-dampened blond hair, that Matthew really knew fear.

"...no..." Alfred repeated, and his normally boistrous voice just sounded so wrong when it was this quiet, "This is none of his business."

"Al..."

"I said no!" His brother didn't look at him, half turned his body away in rejection of the words. "I don't need him, Mattie. I don't need anyone."

Hurt lanced through Canada's chest at Alfred's words. He'd only been trying to help... Worse than that was the further implication that he was unimportant. After all this time, he should have been used to America marginalizing him, god knew it happened enough. That didn't keep him from feeling like he'd just had a knife put through his gut. It was only his love for his brother that kept him rooted to the spot... because as stupid as it made him, he did love Alfred, heaven help him. "Maybe not," He acknowledged, his voice thick, "But you've got me."

There was something disturbing about the way America's shoulders shook at that, the sound of laughter that followed a moment later only cinching it. Matt froze in the motion of reaching out to lay a reassuring hand on his brother's shoulders, his eyes widening. "Al...?"

"You're here now-" Alfred rasped the words, breathing with some difficulty, "- now. That's sweet of you, Mattie. Always here for your big brother, right? Just like the way you helped me during the Revolution."

"...don't..." This was straying into dangerous territory now. Matthew felt a churning in his stomach as he watched his brother, wanting to reach out a hand to silence him before this got out of hand. Firelight was turning Alfred's tanned skin gold, lighting the white of his loose shirt in orange-red, glistening on the sheen of sweat across the nation's half-naked body. It might have been an erotic sight if not for the sharp jut of his belly, the way he was hunched on the floor with towels beneath his spread legs... if not for the words falling from his lips.

"Or what about 1812? I remember how you were there for me then..." There was a cutting edge to his words and Matthew found his worries realized. God, he had to bring that up... when the scars were still tender.

"Stop!" He barked the word, almost as hysterical as America was, just a bit quieter. "Don't do this. Don't talk about that. It's history! I'm here now."

Alfred raised his head to look at his brother through his bangs, teeth gritted slightly and the corner of his mouth pulling in pain. "Hypocrite." And he knew where to hit, where the blows would be lowest, where they would hurt the most. "You weren't here when I needed you - not for anything else. Why did you come now? To laugh at me?" There was something not quite sane about the glitter in America's eyes. "No? Pity then." His voice went harsh. "I don't need your pity, brother. I don't need you. I don't WANT you."

Canada's heart stopped in his chest. The breath escaped his lungs and refused to be caught again as he stared down at the hateful stranger who had taken his brother's place. He could feel a damp warmth on his cheeks but he couldn't reach up to brush away the tears with his fingers.

The other nation regarded him silently, shoulders rising and falling in short jerks, utterly silent. When Matt didn't speak or move, Alfred narrowed his eyes, the color trapped somewhere between blue and gray - murky and roiling. "Leave me alone." The anger had sapped from his voice, leaving it hollow, his head lowering again.

Rising to his feet, Matthew took a careful step backwards, wishing he could disguise the shaking of his legs, thankful that at least his brother was too fixated on the floor to notice. His hand trembled as he pulled the door open, feeling a mixture of uneasiness and a perverse gratitude to be getting away from this. His insides were twisting and writhing, like the emotion had become a living thing in his belly. Anger... sorrow... hate... betrayal... love

Love.

He stopped a short distance outside of Alfred's cabin, looking back over his shoulder, feeling the pounding of his heart in his chest. He turned.

The door pushed open beneath his fingers with only a slight creak, but the smell that hit him as soon as he stepped inside set his pulse to racing. Blood. Enough that it hung on the air - he could almost taste it.

He raced to his brother's side. Alfred was sitting partially upright, braced on one hand and turned slightly so the rest of the weight was on his hip not on his back - Matthew remembered Alfred refusing the position earlier, it made him feel too helpless. His other hand was-

Oh God...

His twin was tearing at his belly with his fingernails, at the swollen mound of if, his voice choked with tears and laced with an agony that Matthew could barely comprehend. "Not like this..." The words were soft and broken, nothing like the desperation in his movements. Was Alfred trying to claw the baby out of himself?

Matthew caught hold of his brother's wrists, tighter than he would have normally. He felt the strain as America struggled against him, the curses that came out as howls - inarticulate, animal. Alfred's blood was slippery and warm on his fingers as the other nation finally fell still, body slumping to the floor. His side rose and fell in short, rapid breaths, and Canada leaned over him, still clutching Alfred's red-stained hand in his own, murmuring snippets of French - the soft hum of some familiar song - as he tried to soothe his twin.

Tears streaked down Matthew's cheeks as he felt his brother go completely slack in his grip. He should go for help, he thought, knowing he couldn't deal with this by himself. Arthur. He needed Arthur, and damn America's pride!

He wasn't going to let his brother go through this alone. Not this time.

-


	2. Chapter 2

The Burdens We Bear (2/?)

-Jan 31, 1861-

The house wasn't silent - as terrible as the absence of noise would have been, it would still have been better than the muted murmur that pervaded. England felt it more than heard it, like walking through a fog of sound. There were few of America's people to be seen, which in itself was not unusual... few were privy to the knowledge of their Nation's existence as a person as well as a country. Matthew was there ahead of him - plucking at non-existent pieces of lint on his coat. He turned as Arthur entered, hesitating before approaching him. There was an awkwardness as the younger nation drew near - he'd never been as close to Matthew as he was with Alfred and it was hard enough to offer comfort in a situation like this. What was he supposed to do?

Canada solved the problem for him, throwing arms around Arthur in a clinging hug. He held on even as the older nation froze, hands held at his sides until he slowly raised them to embrace Matthew in return. "What's going on?" He murmured low, surprise flitting through him as he felt the Canadian grip more tightly at the back of his jacket. The youth didn't say anything, but he could feel Matthew shaking his head where it rested against his chest. When Canada pulled back and England could see the genuine concern on the sweet face - so much like America's... - Arthur felt a stab of guilt. Since he'd gotten Matthew's note, he hadn't even thought about anything but America. He could admit to himself that seeing Alfred's name on the paper was the primary reason he hadn't set it aside on his desk and forgotten about it. He sighed a little, pulling him back into a hug and pressing his cheek into Matthew's soft blonde hair for a moment.

"Matthew?" He gave the younger nation that questioning look again and (again) Canada didn't seem willing to elaborate on what exactly was wrong with his brother.

"I..." Matt shook his head a little, a helpless look in his eyes. "I can't. You just need to see him yourself. Please, Arthur..." Because of the pain in his voice (and because damn it, when had Canada ever asked him for anything?) England asked no further questions. He let his hand linger on Matthew's shoulder for a few moments longer, more for his own sake than the other's, then braced himself and approached the door.

It was opened just a little - not enough to see inside. His hand brushed against the cool wood, recoiled for a second, then he nudged it and eased inside.

There was something odd in the air, he could tell as soon as he stepped into the room. The curtains were drawn shut most of the way, a beam of sunlight trickling in and illuminating the white fabric of the coverlet. Alfred was half propped up, his back braced against the wooden headboard with a mound of pillows around him. Cradled against his chest was a tiny form wrapped in a blanket. America was cooing a tune that Arthur couldn't immediately recognize.

"Way down yonder, down in the meadow

There's a wee little lamby.

The bees and the butterflies, pickin' at its eyes

And the poor thing crying for it's mammy..."

It was the perfect picture of a doting parent with their newborn, and yet... The slightly odd cant of America's voice, the heaviness in the air, even the way Alfred was gently rocking the child... they all sent a feeling of wrongness screaming through him. The hairs of the back of his neck stood on end and it was a struggle for him to ease towards the bed.

Alfred didn't acknowledge him there, not even as he came up beside the bed. It wasn't until England cleared his throat, the sound barely loud enough to be heard, that he had any hint that America was even aware of his presence. The song fell silent, though the rocking continued - his expression was impossible to see with his head lowered and strands of his blonde hair falling across his eyes.

"France." It took a second for the name to register and when it did, Arther immediately felt his hackles rise. Why would America even be bringing up that stupid frog at a time like... England's thought process ground to a halt as he finally caught a glimpse of the baby's face. The girl's hair was thick for a newborn, already very slightly wavy. She didn't have Arthur's eyebrows, but that wasn't necessarily telling since more than one of the states he'd fathered had come out looking more like Alfred than him. Even so, he knew immediately that she wasn't his... he could **feel** it down to his marrow. He was certain if she opened her eyes they would be that same pervasive blue as Francis'.

But she wasn't going to.

"America-" His voice trembled for a second as it finally registered that the girl wasn't wrapped up in a blanket but in the American flag, the one that had always hung on the wall at the head of Alfred's bed. The room looked strange without it, barren. It was a look that Arthur saw reflected in the other nation's eyes when Alfred finally lifted his head to look at him.

"Did you come to see her, Arthur? Francis didn't." There was a smile on his lips that was reminiscent of his usual cheerfulness, but the expression didn't touch his eyes - the blue of them was flat, gray like a sky marred by storm clouds. "She's beautiful, isn't she? Wouldn't you like to hold her? She's so quiet..." His voice dissolved into a maternal cooing that made England want to gag, and not in the derisive way that he usually wanted to gag when having to put up with his idiotic former colony.

He tried again, trying to keep the shaking out of his voice, "Alfred, this isn't right." When he took another step forward, his foot bumped against a bundle of cloth against the floor - bloodstained towels, red swimming across the white in wide bands. America's blood. So much of it. England drew a breath between his teeth and tried to tear his eyes away.

A hint of movement drew his attention back immediately, eyes widening as he realized that there was something else there as well. "Holy..." Swooping down, Arthur plucked the weakly squirming form of a second baby girl from the mess of crimson-edged rags. She looked the same as her sister - the same wavy golden hair, streaked red and those eyes... a foggy blue now but they'd be as clear as Alfred's - as France's. And she was alive.

Alive.... unlike the baby in America's arms.

"What the fuck are you doing, Alfred!?" England held the infant close, feeling the way she shivered weakly against his chest. "Why the hell did you leave her lying in a pile of trash, you twat!?"

He hoped America would say it was some kind of messed up accident, that he hadn't even realized that one of his daughters had survived. He hoped for that, because as stupid as that would have been, at least it might have been rational. Forgivable.

The serious look on Alfred's face undid him. "She doesn't deserve to live."

"...what?" He'd heard wrong, he must have. Alfred might have been an idiot and an ungrateful little bastard, but he loved his children -

"She killed her Arthur. She killed my Kansas..." He kissed the cool brow of the baby he was holding, brushing strands of her wheat-blonde hair away from her sightless eyes. "She hates me."

"She didn't. It was a stillbirth, Alfred. It happens. You goddamn well know it does." It was amazing that America had already given birth to so many children without losing any – a testament to the strength of his will, his determination. "Don't do this." It came out more of a plea than a command, as though Arthur could really command the unruly nation to do anything nowadays, anyway.

Flat blue eyes slid up to meet England's green ones, lips quirked in a smile that was infinitely more disturbing than any kind of anger would have been. "She hates me Arthur. You'll see." He lowered his head again, one hand freeing itself from its gentle grip on his dead daughter to stroke across the blankets draped around his lap. There was a dark stain beginning to seep through the white, red like the loss of innocence, and Alfred's voice was so low that England couldn't be sure if he'd really heard the words or only imagined them. "She'll be the death of me..."

-

Author's Note: Wow... um... sorry it's so dark.

In case you were wondering, the lyrics Alfred was singing are from the song "All the Pretty Horses", a traditional Southern lullaby. It's believed to have originated with slaves during the pre-civil war period and was often sung by black nursemaids to their white charges. The verse I had Alfred singing is often considered a reference to the way slaves were separated from their families in order to serve their owners. It's very different than the rest of the song, suggesting an emotional significance.

Okay, enough on the song history. More to come soon, unfortunately it's probably going to get worse before it gets better.


	3. Chapter 3

Apologies in advance for this chapter. I warn you, some of the content is not for the squeamish.

The Burdens We Bear (3/?)

- Feb 1, 1861-

It was sunny the day America laid his daughter to rest in the land that would have been hers. He dug the grave himself, though under the watchful gaze of his brother, Canada. He was oblivious to the presence of his northern twin throughout, even as he smoothed the dirt over her grave. The dark loam clung to his fingers and even from where he was standing, a few feet back, Matthew could identify the distinctive scent of it. As with many things in this land, it smelled like Alfred. Though there had been no particular ceremony, no one involved in America's private pain, it had still been remarkably painstaking and precise. He'd buried her in the flag - nothing else would do - and when it was done, he scattered bright sunflowers across the fresh turned soil. Matthew said nothing - he couldn't. Every time he tried to speak, to reassure the mourning nation, America would look at him with those distant blue eyes and the words would die before he could give them voice.

He and Arthur had stayed a few days longer than they'd planned, ostensibly to help with the funeral arrangements, but mostly to keep an eye on America. There hadn't really been much to arrange... Alfred had handled everything with a calm precision that Canada had never identified with the wayward nation before. In fact, he had things so well in hand that Matthew couldn't help but wonder if he'd ever done this before - a chilling thought, in itself. If it hadn't been for the heavy melancholy of the moment and his brother's odd quiet, he might have dared to ask, but watching Alfred carefully wiping the blood from his little girl's face and arranging her broken little body into some semblance of peacefulness had successfully quelled any hints of curiosity.

While Alfred was honoring his dead infant, England was seeing to the living one. Matt had specifically requested that the older nation keep an eye on the girl while he made sure his twin was okay. The more he saw of America's demeanor, the more he was glad for his earlier caution. Alfred was still showing no sign of interest in his surviving child - if not for England's constant presence, the girl would quickly have joined her sister. In the time they'd been there, the grieving nation had never suckled the girl, never kissed her, never even held her. None of Matthew's hovering and pleading had any effect, nor did Arthur's rants. Still, the European nation's presence and support had been invaluable - Matt just couldn't have asked him in good conscience to stay around too much longer... the man still had his own people to attend to.

Canada sighed, the sound snatched away on a bit of wind. As he turned his head to look away from the sight of Alfred still standing in front of his daughter's grave, as silent and still as Death, himself, he saw Arthur coming up the slight right of the hillside, little Kansas held to his chest. There was nothing for it, as much as Alfred had insisted that Kansas was the girl he had only just now finished burying, it was clear that this girl too, was Kansas. Matt couldn't help but wonder if England had been so gentle and attentive with any of the children he'd sired with America - couldn't really remember Arthur being around here all that much past the American Revolution and of course 1812, though Matthew had managed the bulk of that war well enough on his own - certainly he'd never given as much consideration to Canada as he was giving to Kansas now. He felt a stab of jealousy, wondering if it was because she was America's, knowing he would never humiliate himself even more by asking. England was stroking the sleeping girl's soft blonde fuzz with that unfamiliar tenderness and when Matthew looked at him, gaze questioning - though what the question was, he wasn't sure - he merely pressed his lips together in a tight line and shook his head.

America turned toward them at last, faintly silhouetted by the sunrise, the light touching his hair with a thousand shades of gold: the color of sand and sunshine and wide, stretching fields of wheat.. all the things he was. Even hints of the same vivid yellow as the last of the sunflowers that were slipping from Alfred's fingers to fall across the mound of fresh earth. And then finally - finally! - he approached the waiting nations. Standing in front of them, the look in his eyes impossible to gauge, he held out his arms towards Arthur, expectant. Matthew could feel the slight jerk of the older nation's body in response and he knew - or thought he knew - what had to be going on in England's mind.

He was afraid America was going to kill her. His own baby. It would have been ludicrous if it hadn't been Canada's fear as well.

England stepped forward, unable to deny Alfred what was his right. Matthew's heart lept into his throat as the girl changed hands, more than half-expecting his brother to simply dash her tiny form against the ground and be done with it. His palms were sweaty as he curled his hands into fists, but his fears went unrealized as America only shifted the girl gingerly until her head was resting against his breast, looking almost as awkward and uncertain as Arthur had. The baby hiccuped softly, let out a little mewl, and Alfred lowered his head, buried his face against the downy fluff of her hair and simply breathed. Once. Twice.

His shoulder quivered and Matthew reached out a hand - to reassure him, perhaps, - only to be drawn up short by England touching him on the arm. When he glanced at the older nation, Arthur was shaking his head in silent negation.

But it wasn't until America pressed a kiss to the girl's brow that Matt finally felt the tension leaking out of him. His worry dissipated. Whatever else his brother might have been, he was a devoted parent.

Alfred slipped past them, still holding his baby, and both Canada and England turned to watch as he descended the gentle slope. Arthur let out his breath in a soft sigh, running one hand through his hair. "So that's it then."

"Arthur?" Canada looked at the older nation, violet-blue eyes filled with questions.

There was a slight hesitation, then England met his querulous gaze with a resolute look. "I have to get back to Europe... there are still some things I have to attend to." And then, so quiet that Matthew knew it wasn't meant for him, "-and Francis and I need to have a talk."

There was nothing he could say to that, so Canada merely nodded again. He didn't think England even saw his response, as infuriating as that was, since the older nation turned away from him and went down the hillside. The waist high grass rippled around him in waves as he descended, a vast ocean of living green, and even when he stopped halfway down the hill, it did nothing to lessen the mental image. Arthur didn't even look back at him as he spoke, "Let me know how things are going." Please. England didn't say the word, but Matthew heard it anyway.

"I will." The wind caught his promise and scattered it among the sunflowers.

-

America settled the infant into her cradle, tugging the blankets to cover her. His fingertips brushed against her soft hair, traced the delicate curve of her cheek. She felt fragile to the touch - so much more than Oregon had been, although they weren't too far apart in age, or even size. The girl already looked like Francis, more like him than like Alfred himself. When she grew up, she was going to be beautiful.

His fingers curled, a faint sting going through him as his nails bit crescent shaped cuts into his palms. Looking down at his daughter's sleeping face, the sunlight filtering in through the window and turning her thistledown hair into a glowing halo that would only have been more complete with the addition of a heavenly choir, America could only see his first memory of her.

...

If he hadn't given birth to several children already, he would have been in a state of panic when he'd seen how badly he was bleeding. Instead, the blood had gone completely ignored throughout, his single focus was bringing the two children, sitting heavy in his belly, into the world. Unlike the experience for most of his people, for Alfred, childbirth was a lonely process. There was no midwife to give him gentle, but firm, advice, no sisters and friends to accompany him throughout the process. With only two exceptions, he hadn't even had the father of the baby present during his labor... There was only him and the contractions, the breathing... the pain... Sweat trickled down his cheeks as he crouched, pushed. He felt the stretch of his body past the point where pain became unbearable and yet kept going. Wet seeped down his thighs as he slid one hand carefully beneath himself and felt the curve of his baby's head, his sweat damp and lingering along the column of his throat.

Breathe. Push. Breathe... and that moment at last where he felt a quiver through his limbs that no longer had to do with pain - where he pushed through the pain, or it pushed through him, and all that was left was the damp weight of the newborn against his slippery palms and oh... careful, so careful...

His brothers might not have recognized him like this - where he was caught in that place that was still outside of civilization, the part of him that operated more on instinct than the lessons that Arthur had tried so hard to instill. But Arthur would never know this feeling.

He felt the slickness of the umbilical cord against his fingers as he eased his baby into the nest of towels and blankets, coiling it around both of his fingers, pinching it sharply. Biting it - while the freaked out vestiges of England's proper behavior threw a royal hissyfit in his head - because there was no time for scissors, or even a knife, and he could already feel the contractions beginning again. Fighting back the need to push, just long enough to do this, he wrapped the baby up in a loose towel, using the end of it to wipe her face. She wasn't crying, didn't appear to be breathing even though he could feel the beat of her heart passing to him through the tips of his fingers.

Carefully he balanced her along his forearm, her head cradled against the palm of his hand. He murmured to her, nonsense words, as he touched her chin with one finger. It took a gentle nudge to part her lips and he pressed his own carefully against her open mouth, covering her tiny nose and pausing for only a second before inhaling slightly. His head jerked to the side immediately, and he spat onto the floor, not caring about the gracelessness of it or the taste of his own blood on his tongue. He repeated the motion. Then once more, but this time he blew out, breathing instead of inhaling; just the faintest puff of air. Again.

At last he felt her squirm against his hand, drawing his head back and hearing the first choked cry issue from her lips.

Circumstances didn't give him the chance to rejoice, as the sharp contractions resumed, twisting his insides mercilessly. Alfred hissed, barely managing to wrap the child clumsily with one hand and lay her down before his long, painful labor resumed its course.

...

His thumb stroked against his daughter's cheek as he remained caught in the memory. Awareness came slowly back into his eyes, his hand shifting. He let his palm rest against her nose and mouth and felt the soft warmth of her breath on his skin. Slowly he pressed his hand down more firmly, felt her rouse, felt the squirming of her small body as his hold made it impossible for her to draw in a breath. America's eyes narrowed behind his glasses.

Then he was halfway across the room, his own breath coming hard as he heard his daughter's soft snuffles. Each choked little noise tore through his gut.

_What the hell am I doing?_

Alfred pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling his back make contact with the wall hard enough to bruise. He sank down against it, curling his knees to his chest and wishing he couldn't still feel her struggles against his fingers. The renewed sensation of blood trickling down his thighs hardly felt like an adequate punishment for his murderous intent. She was his daughter, for god's sake... barely two days old...

His baby... and gods help him because he hated her. In the distant part of his mind that might have passed for rationality, he was aware that he loved her too - strongly, unwaveringly... in the same way that he both loved and hated himself.

Neither feeling could console him.

Staggering to his feet, he made his way into the washroom, dipping a rag in the basin of water and squeezing it out in short, mechanical motions. He froze as he met his own gaze in the mirror, his fingers trembling. The rag fell back into the basin with a faint splash, seconds before his fist hit the glass. It didn't give him the satisfaction of shattering, just cracking and ridging, the edges biting into his knuckles. Blood trickled down his fingers as he stared as his new image, split down the middle by a long, vertical crack. He stared at himself, at his broken reflection, then slowly he raised his dripping fingers, spread them, drew them horizontally across the right side of the glass in a series of perfect, parallel lines.

Three days after America laid Kansas to rest, seven of his children declared their secession.

Thirty-one days after America laid Kansas to rest, Alabama raised the Stars and Bars at his capital city.

Seventy days after America laid Kansas to rest, the Civil War began.


	4. Chapter 4

The Burdens We Bear (4/?)

Notes: Nation!sex in this chapter (UK/US)

- November 2, 1862 -

It was the first time since the Civil War began that England had been to visit America in person. Truth be told, he hadn't been looking forward to the trip at all. From the information Matthew had relayed to him, Arthur knew that his former colony was in a bad way. The only reassuring news was that Alfred hadn't flipped out badly enough to hurt Kansas - at Canada's last visit the girl was doing well. Still, England knew, given America's precarious mental state, the safety of his youngest child was far from guaranteed.

And that wasn't even considering the possibility that the girl was in just as much danger from her own siblings.

Part of Arthur wanted to be smug, because this was exactly what he'd warned America about. Now Alfred was learning about how much it could hurt to be torn apart. Another part of him knew that this was a bit different than America's rejection of him. He'd seen the results of civil wars, the effect they had on other countries. Francis had almost been torn apart by the so-called French Revolution. England could remember the gleam of insanity in France's eyes as his people slaughtered each other, and even in the intervening years, something about Francis would always be different than it had been before.

Arthur had a second reason for his wariness, for his discomfort. He'd sent several messages to Alfred since the birth of Kansas, more than a few of which had hinted that perhaps it might be better for all concerned if America were to give in to the inevitable.

Alfred, of course, responded with a very short missive telling him to fuck off and mind his own damn business.

In hindsight, it hadn't come as any kind of surprise. Rankled by America's tone, by the easy dismissal of his hard won advice, England continued to send the messages, even going so far as to contact America's children about their war efforts.

America had not taken that well at all...

The result had been chaos and only a rare moment of maturity on America's part had kept him and England from going to war. Again. Then America's boss had come up with the Emancipation Proclamation, and it shut Arthur and his people out entirely. Whatever they thought about the Americans and their civil war, there was nothing they could do when it became a battle that had suddenly been staked on a moral cause.

So, for the moment at least, he was not visiting in an official capacity. He was here to check on America. And it wasn't until he was standing right outside Alfred's door, too far in to back away, that he realized that he didn't want to do this. He hesitated, ready to just leave and hope that no one had noticed his presence, and that was when the door swung open.

On the surface, Alfred was composed enough, looking at England steadily from behind his glasses. There was a long silence, in which America's stoic expression - he was normally so easy to read that it was downright laughable for him to try and conceal anything - remained impenetrable. Then he stepped aside, tipping his head in a quick gesture to invite England in.

Arthur was cautious as he walked past the former colony, half-expecting America to strike him from behind as soon as he passed. Alfred still had that look in his eyes, the shade subtly shifting between his normal bright blue and a greyer shade - almost slate colored. It was the only really obvious outward sign of his internal struggle. Alfred kicked the door shut most of the way with the heel of his foot, shoving his hands in his pockets in a move that seemed just a little too casual. It hadn't been fast enough to conceal the fresh scabs on his knuckles. England didn't know if it was from fighting someone else or if it was self inflicted. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"What are you doing here, England?" America said, without preamble. His tone seemed friendly enough, but there was a pointed edge to his words that made it clear to Arthur that he remembered the conflicts going on between them.

"Take it easy," He replied, trying to keep his tone light, "I just came to check on you. Believe it or not, I do feel concern over your well being." When Alfred wasn't being a total ass, that was.

A soft chuckle. "So you just thought you'd stop by and see how I'm doing? That's very gentlemanly of you, Iggy." Then, a bit colder, "I'm fine. So you can just head on back home. I'm sure you're missing the Imperialism. And the rain." Alfred started to turn away, only to be drawn up short as Arthur grabbed him by the front of his uniform.

Even England was surprised at how much force he used as he whirled America around and slammed him up against the wall. It wasn't like the other country had said anything particularly offensive - he was only being his normal, idiotic self. Maybe it was just that Arthur had been worried and to have Alfred toss his concern back in his face so casually was intolerable. "I was worried about you, you ungrateful twit! The least you could do is take me seriously for a few minutes!" Blue eyes slid away from his gaze, head lowering just a little. Alfred's expression was still impossible to read - he couldn't tell if the younger nation was being dismissive or if he actually felt chagrined at the rebuke.

"You're right." Arthur's fingers went slack on the front of the uniform, enough that Alfred could have pulled free if he'd wanted. But he didn't move. "Thanks, I guess, for worrying about me." And just as England was starting to relax, starting to think that maybe this whole trip was salvageable, America continued in that bleak tone. "But you can't help me, Arthur. You can't. This is my problem."

'Oh America, you fool...' Because it was England's problem. Whether it was because of the political implications of America being split down the middle or another, more personal worry -(because he did love America, even though it was damned stupid of him) - this problem went beyond Alfred. "That's not true-" he began, not even sure which argument he was planning to use.

In the end, he didn't get to use either, as America leaned forward, crushing their lips together and making Arthur's heart stutter to a stop. When the younger nation pulled back, England could only look at him, dumbfounded. "You actually **do** want to help, don't you Arthur? But there really is nothing you can do about this war." He sounded mildly amused, but there was also something else in his tone that sent a cold shiver up the European nation's spine. America's tongue flicked out, brushing the corner of England's mouth, his voice dropping a few notes lower - turning husky. "There is one thing you could do for me though..."

And England hadn't been expecting **that** response. Considering that he was the one who had Alfred pinned against a wall, he was amazed at the sheer nerve of the move. America's hand slid low across England's front, fingers cupping the slight bulge of his trousers, squeezing. And it occurred to Arthur exactly what Alfred wanted from him.

He should have refused. Immediately. Unconditionally. Alfred was barely in his right mind. Arthur wasn't even sure if this would be him taking advantage of America or vice versa. Those were the first thoughts to flit through his mind, followed immediately by 'oh yes... right there..." as Alfred stroked his thumb upward teasingly. A hand slid into his trousers and the last opportunity for him to refuse flew right past. When Alfred sank to his knees, even the realization that the man didn't give a damn that it was him, specifically, that he was coaxing into his bed, wasn't enough to make England pull away.

Because, god be damned, he wanted this. Even knowing that the only thing America cared about was growing hard beneath his stroking fingers, England couldn't have stopped him.

America's hands were kneading at him with a skill and confidence that staggered Arthur. Had he learned this from Francis? Jealousy bubbled in him at the thought, only dissipating as the younger nation's lips engulfed him and the sensations stole away his thoughts. He barely had the presence of mind to shove the door the rest of the way shut before he staggered backwards a half-step and put his back against the wall for support. His fingers raked through Alfred's blonde hair as the attentions continued, a low grunt in his throat as he pumped himself firmly into that eager mouth.

When the other nation pulled back, leaving a sudden cold on Arthur's exposed regions, he couldn't help the soft string of curses. "What the fuck are you doing, America?!" It occurred to him that just maybe he was wrong and was this how America was planning to get back at him for trying to interfere with his affairs. He was so damn hard it hurt but when he reached out to catch hold of Alfred and drag him back, America easily dodged his clumsy grab.

He hissed again, about ready to strangle the younger nation if he didn't get back here **right now **and froze. It took him a moment to get himself back together enough to register what he was seeing: Alfred, having torn out of his clothing, was already on the bed. Stretched out among the white blankets, his lips curled in a come-hither smile that didn't quite touch his eyes, he was a feast waiting to be devoured. Arthur was on top of him in seconds, motives forgotten as his lips caught the other country's. Alfred was dragging Arthur's pants down further, one hand guiding him, and then he was buried in the tight heat of America's vital regions.

England took America several times, on his back, on his stomach, on all fours. It had been a long time since he'd found it in himself to go a whole night and part of a day. Arthur had learned quickly not to look at Alfred while they were fucking... as long as he didn't, he could pretend like this meant something. Every time he looked into America's blue eyes he saw a powerful hunger, an overriding need. But it wasn't for him. He was a means to an end. Anger propelled him forward at that thought, and then he had America stretched out flat on his belly, wrists pinned, his hips driving unrelentingly. The bastard hadn't even had the decency to be hurt by this rough treatment, pushing back against Arthur with eager desperation.

His anger had burned itself out after a while, leaving only a few embers of resentment, and now - as they were both tired and worn - England could only feel a deep melancholy. They were on their sides, spooning, as Arthur rocked his hips in slow strokes. His hands traced the lines of the younger nation's chest, downward to cup his turgid flesh as he kissed the damp skin along the back of America's neck. This was what he wanted... for a moment, burying himself in Alfred's scent, he could pretend that this was real. "I love you, America," He mumbled against his lover's skin, felt the moment of tension, then the soft sigh as Alfred relaxed and settled back against him as naturally as if he belonged there.

Later, when America had passed out among the damp sheets, England stared at his sleeping form for a long time. He hadn't come here for this... He wasn't even sure why he was surprised. Alfred had always been too damn good at pushing his buttons... in every possible regard. Normally though, he had a lot more self-control than this. Arthur rubbed at his temples, feeling them starting to pound. He was going to wind up paying for this, somehow. Whether this future price was worth the moment, he wasn't sure, but he couldn't find himself regretting it.

If he could have, he would have stayed. Maybe spent the entire night sharing America's bed and imagining that things had gone differently somewhere. Looking back now, he could only wonder where he might have changed things to keep Alfred with him. At the moment, all he could think was that he wasn't sure if he could take watching the other nation tearing himself apart from the inside. Arthur might go mad himself, seeing that.

America had fallen asleep with his glasses on again - strange that they hadn't ever fallen off, considering the enthusiasm of their lovemaking, but there were many things strange about America. They were slightly askew, and Arthur reached out, taking care not to disturb the younger nation as he slowly slid them off, folding them and resting them on the bedside table.

England's fingertips traced the line of Alfred's cheek, the barest of touches. He brushed fingers along a bare shoulder, down the smooth lines of his lover's chest. Then his fingers grazed low across America's belly - slightly above where the loosely draped blankets covered him - and stuttered to a halt. Arthur swallowed as he shifted, resting his palm flat against Alfred's abdomen.

Had America done this with any other nations? Was England merely the latest in a long line of would-be fathers for the baby America so desperately wanted?

He hoped not... Some part of him wanted more than anything to be the one to fulfill this need. If he couldn't make his former colony love him the way he wanted, then he could at least take some small pleasure in knowing that America loved something that was part of him.

Leaning down, he pressed his lips to Alfred's belly. "I hope you got what you wanted from me, you selfish twat," He mumbled, low enough that he was in no danger of awakening the other nation.

Arthur dressed himself in silence, darting the occasional glance back to America. As he slid his jacket back on, he made his way back over to the bed, reaching out to tug the covers up gently. The door barely clicked on the way out.

It was to be his last visit to America throughout the next several months of the war.


	5. Chapter 5

The Burdens We Bear (5/8)

-

- January 21, 1963 -

It was difficult for Canada to ignore his brother's war. The European nations might have been blase about the whole thing - might even, or so Matt gathered, want Alfred to fail - but they were also an ocean away. They didn't have to deal with the fall out of America's battles up-close, nor did they need to deal with America himself. Matt wasn't too sure how much longer he could handle being his brother's only thread to sanity. The current influx of Alfred's citizens across his border was really the least of his worries. Humanitarian issues aside, it just wasn't a big deal. Or it hadn't been, until America had shown up on his doorstep, demanding they talk about the problem.

The only reason he was humoring his twin was because he couldn't help but sympathize with what the other nation was going through. Besides, he didn't want Alfred to get pissy at him and try to burn down his capital. Again. Though, he thought, a bit wry, it might have been better. At least it would have been over with more quickly.

"Matt?" Canada blinked a few times, forcing his gaze to focus on his brother, who was looking at him expectantly. He'd just asked something, hadn't he? For a moment Matt hesitated, wondering if he should bother trying to fake it. Alfred was usually no good about figuring those kinds of things out anyway. "You weren't even listening, were you?" Matthew gaped a little at his brother, wondering how America had figured that out so quickly.

"Of course I..."

"You weren't." A sigh. "Look, Mattie... I-" The tone of America's voice was weary, a lot older sounding than his usual upbeat self. This, more than anything, struck home the fact that the other nation was suffering. He'd known it, but he hadn't seen it put so starkly in front of him until now. America had always preferred to keep a cheerful front - to see him like this was... jarring. "I don't really want to deal with this any more than you do."

"What...?" He stared at his twin, stunned. If America didn't want to talk about this, then why in the heck was he bringing it up over and over again? He was the one who kept dragging Matt out to speak with him about his social issues. "But you were the one making such a big deal out of it, Alfred, not me."

America fidgeted, pushing the food around on his plate. Somewhere along the line, he'd gotten the notion into his head that doing things 'over lunch' was the best way to conduct business. What it usually meant though, was a long, trying period of time where he did his best not to cringe at the food Alfred inevitably chose - being raised by France, Matthew did not share his brother's rather loose definitions of what constituted a proper meal - and at his brother's less than gentlemanly eating habits. It was about then that he noticed that there was still an awful lot of food on America's plate... He hadn't realized that all the battles going on had been affecting his brother's appetite.

He pushed his glasses up a little and pinched at the bridge of his nose, sighing softly. "Al... are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine, Matt." Alfred's gaze was fixed firmly on the plate in front of him, where he was busy pushing food around with his fork.

Watching his brother not eating was unsettling but at the same time, oddly familiar. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to try something else? We could have one of my people cook for us..." As his brother turned a little green and dismissed himself from the table, it finally sank in where he'd seen this before. Canada stared down at his brother's plate, his thoughts racing. Maybe he was wrong... After all, it was the middle of a civil war and Alfred wasn't exactly himself. All the battles going on could have been making him physically ill, surely...

His gaze was intent as America approached the table again, still looking vaguely queasy. He was searching out any indicators that would confirm his suspicions and now that he knew what to look for, it was obvious. Alfred's hand skirted across his belly as he moved to sit back down, just enough to flatten his shirt against the very slight curve of his stomach. Canada drew a sharper breath than he'd anticipated and he saw his brother stiffen a little in his seat, eyes widening almost comically behind his glasses. Their gazes met and the knowledge was communicated between them in an instant.

Alfred turned his head away, cupping his hand across his belly, his thumb rubbing at the fabric in a jerky, nervous gesture. Matthew was silent for a moment longer, his muscles starting to twinge from holding himself so still. "Al..."

"Don't." America's voice had a sharp edge to it, jerking his head around to meet his brother's gaze, eyes narrowed. "I know what you're thinking and I don't care. Anyway.... it's done and there's no taking it back, so don't give me that look."

No matter what America said, it was difficult not to be worried - both about Alfred's precarious mental state of late and the tolls that pregnancy would surely take. He knew, as his brother had to know, that it was a bad idea. Still, it wasn't like the other nation had ever listened to his advice before - and why did he feel so disappointed anyway? He wasn't his brother's keeper.

America obviously had no intention of telling him anything more about his current state; his brother's features had a stubborn set to them. And although Matthew wanted to leave it be as much as America did - more - there was one fear at least that he had to lay to rest. "It wasn't..." His voice faltered, "It wasn't Mexico, was it?"

Alfred's flinch was almost - almost - imperceptible. It was still too soon; their older brother to the south was still one of those taboo topics. It was a war that America had started and eventually won but whatever had happened to America at the Alamo - beside the death of the Texians who'd stood against Mexico's army - it was something he'd never spoken of, not even with Matthew. He didn't need to, though. One look at Texas' features said it all.

"I already told you to let it drop, Mattie." Alfred's voice was cheery, but forced, "besides, you should be thrilled. You're going to be an uncle."

"I was already an uncle, Alfred."

"Well, you're going to be an uncle again." Even if America's grin was a little strained, he was still acting more like his old self than he had since the beginning of this war, and Matthew nodded and smiled. "Don't look so glum, Mattie. You know you like spending time with the states." His voice had a chirpy undertone to it - so familiar - and Canada felt himself relaxing and giving his brother an uncertain smile in return.

His hand crept out, resting lightly atop America's, "You're right, Al."

The old cocky grin was back as America leaned forward, clasping his other hand on top of Canada's and resting his forehead against his twin's. "Aren't I always?"

"...Don't press your luck."

-

- Feb 14, 1863 -

He was never sure what to make of it when his brother was being thoughtful. He stared at the box on his desk for a long time before reaching out to prod it gingerly with one finger. The bow was lopsided, the wrapping job more than a little sloppy, but the fact that America had even remembered the day at all, much less taken the time to send an actual gift. It was almost a shame to unwrap it.

Canada slowly tugged the bow free, opening the box with infinite care. Nestled inside was a handmade card - all white lace and little red hearts. There was even a lopsided blob in the middle that might have possibly passed for a maple leaf. A smile tugged at the edges of his lips as he was able to make out the scrawl that his brother thought passed for handwriting.

'Happy Valentines Day to the best little brother in the world.' The words were followed by a lopsided heart. A second piece of paper, tucked carefully into the card, read 'So, wanna spend the day together? I'll cook.' At the very bottom, a bit less than subtle, Alfred had added, 'Got any more of those French chocolates you sent last year?'

"Idiot." He set the card carefully on his desk, standing and tugging his coat off of the rack. He paused only a moment to grab a small metal tin, tucking it into his pocket as he stepped out into the winter chill.

-

"I'm glad you came, Matt," Alfred admitted as they sat shoulder to shoulder, wrapped in the thick wool drape that was normally lying across the foot of America's bed. Canada would have gotten up a while ago if it hadn't been for the hypnotic warmth of the fire and the way his brother's head rested heavy on his shoulder. He stiffened a little, surprised, as an arm snaked lightly around his middle. Alfred's breath was warm and ticklish against the curve of his neck, and Matt reached up a hand to run his fingers through the short silk of his brother's hair. "I've been lonely with the kids gone..."

There was a drawn out pause, a moment where he could feel the slight shiver in America's shoulders, then his brother buried his face against his neck and it was all Matt could do to simply hold on to Alfred as his twin shuddered against him. He thought Alfred was crying - found it more infinitely disturbing when he realized the other nation was laughing in soft, broken bursts. His own chest was tight as he rubbed at America's back, murmuring soothing nonsense in French because there was nothing else he could do to ease this kind of pain.

The hysterics eased only slowly, leaving Alfred a limp, clinging weight against him. "I'm sorry, Mattie..." He mumbled against Canada's neck. "I just don't-" Anger crept into his voice, "-I just don't understand it. Why do they hate me? They're supposed to love me."

As America continued his litany, not waiting for Matthew to speak to add agreement or dissent, the northern nation was reminded of the days before Alfred's rebellion against England. 'Sometimes children grow up,' he almost said, but those weren't the words his brother wanted to hear, so he remained silent. Throughout the tears and the anger, he sat steady, knowing with a hard-won patience that the storm only ends when the thunder has passed and all the rain has fallen. When it was over and Alfred asked him in a small voice if he would stay just for a little longer, because he couldn't bear to be alone, Matthew agreed.

And as he lay spooned against his brother's back and felt the brush of America's fingers guiding his hand until it lay against the slight curve of his belly, Matthew could only bury his face against Alfred's hair, breathing in the crispness of pine and frost that lingered on his brother's scent, and think with a pang that this too would pass.

-

- March 17, 1863 -

America would normally be getting drunk on this particular day and it was only the fact that Canada was worried about Alfred's tendency to indulge leading to complications with the baby that kept Matthew at his brother's side from dawn to dusk. It wasn't the first time Matt had been to the south, but it was the first time he'd ever really been given the chance to experience this side of America.

Alfred became a different person when they crossed the Mason Dixon line - the abruptness of the change catching the Canadian off-guard. It wasn't just a slight shift in language - away from the New England mishmash of an accent - but a total shift in attitude. When his brother's eyes met his own, they were more grey than blue, the color settling and deepening as they traipsed through the south. Matthew couldn't help the unease as they traveled, expecting to be accosted by one of the southern states, or even by the Confederate Army. America only laughed when he expressed his worries aloud.

"They won't attack us, Mattie." His voice was cool, breezy. Unconcerned. "At least... not this way." When he glanced at Canada, he had a smile that contained echoes of his normal expression. Matthew couldn't help the unnerved look on his face, taking a slight step back as he tried to reconcile what he was seeing. It wasn't until Alfred hoisted the Confederate flag across his shoulders, that his unease came to a head - silence stretching out between them.

He almost jumped as Alfred's hand came down on his shoulder, turning to look into his twin's eyes and expecting to see a stranger. What he saw was a great deal more complex than that.

"Don't be afraid." America's voice had more of a lilt than a drawl at the moment, faint remnants of the Scottish and Irish who had come to settle this area. "This is also who I am."

"That's what I'm afraid of." Matthew breathed, jerking a little as Alfred chuckled, leaning in to stroke a hand across his cheek. Their faces were almost touching and his brother's eyes were luminous, just like his smile.

"Ne me regardes pas comme ça." - _Don't look at me like that._ Canada's eyes widened as he heard his brother speaking in French, only belatedly remembering that Louisiana was one of America's states. He'd never really thought about France's influence on Alfred because it had always seemed so much less than England's.

"J'peux rien y faire, t'es tellement différent..." _- I can't help it, you're so different._ He turned his head away, finding himself bristling for what he knew was no good reason. He stiffened as he felt his brother ease closer - a surprisingly gentle hand resting on his arm to catch his attention.

Rien n'a changé, Mattie. J'ai toujours été cette personne. Tu n'as seulement jamais vu cette facette de moi auparavant. - _Nothing has changed, I've always been this person. You've just never seen this side of me before._

"T'es sûr? Comment tu peux en être certain?" - _Are you sure? How can you know for certain?_ Between the hormones he knew must have been going crazy right now, and the sundering experience of a civil war, how could Alfred have been so convinced that he was in his right mind?

Alfred's arm around his shoulders drew him closer, then he was pressed against his brother, frozen for a second before his arms slowly rose to wrap around America's middle. He could feel the slight swell of the other nation's belly pressed against his middle. "Personne ne te fera de mal, je te le promets." - _No one will hurt you, I promise._ His fingers tightened in the fabric of Alfred's shirt, lips pulling into a thin line as he fought the urge to respond. 'It's not me I'm worried about.' He couldn't trust his twin not to take his concern the wrong way in his mindless attempts to prove himself a hero.

"You don't have to worry." His brother's voice was soft against his hair, then Alfred was pulling back, catching hold of one of Matthew's hands and raising it to his lips in a genteel gesture that he'd never realized the brash nation was capable of. It punctuated the divide in Alfred better than any words could have. "I'm tired of thinking about this war. It feels like it's the only thing left in my life and I'm sick of it." His blue eyes gleamed as he took a step back, "Let's just enjoy ourselves for just a little while. Please."

He felt his resistance crumpling when confronted by that pleading note in Alfred's voice. "We'll talk about this later, though" And despite the firmness of his tone, America lit up at those words, sensing victory.

"C'mon, Mattie! I know this wonderful little place on the bayou - have you ever tried alligator before?" He stepped back catching hold of both of Matthew's hands and beaming, practically vibrating with enthusiasm.

Alligator? Good god, what had he gotten himself into?

-

"What do you think? I still make this look good, don't I?" Alfred stepped out, adjusting the lapels of his suit jacket. Matthew did a double take at the sight. His brother hated wearing suits - the few times he'd ever seen Al dressed in one, it had always been at Arthur's insistance. Despite this, Alfred was right - the suit fit him in a way that Matt would never have expected. It was a clean white, crisply pressed and neatly accenting his brother's lean, muscular frame. The only ripple in the image was America's slight baby bump, just large enough that it was impossible to hide.

"Y-yeah, Al. You look handsome in that." How he wished the awkwardness didn't shine through so much in his words, but if America noticed, he didn't say anything. Of course... he was also _America_, which meant that as long as Matt didn't take the proverbial brick to his head, he probably hadn't realized anything was amiss.

Sweeping one hand lightly down his front to smooth the shirt beneath, Alfred smiled wryly. "I don't think this is going to fit much longer. Might as well make the best of it while I still can, right?" He ran one hand through his messy blonde hair, the attempt to smooth it back making no difference at all, then he held out his hand to Matthew, palm up. "Dance with me, Mattie?"

It was because of Alfred's condition that he didn't refuse immediately. It was because of Alfred's smile, one of the few genuine expressions he'd seen on his brother's face in what felt like forever, that he stepped forward despite his better instinct, slipping his hand into Al's. "What, here?"

"Where better?" And despite the awkwardness of it, and the brief attempt to take the lead that was smoothly circumvented by America - "Just because I'm having a baby, doesn't mean I'm a girl, Mattie!" - he found himself falling into the rhythm of it, promising himself silently that he was only doing this because Alfred was having such a terrible time with the war going on, and surely he could use any contentment he could get. He sighed, a little exasperated, and then he felt his brother's lips graze against his cheek, "Thanks for being there for me, Matt. I appreciate it, I really do. I just..." And he paused - America at a loss for words - before switching to French, the words sliding more easily from his lips than Matthew would ever have guessed, "Laisse-moi être celui qui te prend dans ses bras, cette fois." - _Let __**me**__ be the one to hold __**you**__ this time._

Everything Alfred was saying was so completely like him and so completely wrong, all at once. His brain struggled with the dichotomy for a few seconds before things began to click. America was right... He'd seen this before, in hints and bursts - his brother's overblown sense of gallantry that pervaded even when he failed at being the hero he loudly proclaimed himself, the sense of self-righteousness that made other people want to smack him upside the head. Good and bad, these were all the small parts that made up America.

He began to understand - finally - what Alfred would lose if his children succeeded in breaking the union. More than just land... If he even survived being cut in half that way, Alfred would never be the same again.

"Al..." Matthew hadn't even noticed when he'd drawn to a halt, forcing his brother to still as well. There was a question in America's blue eyes as he pulled back, looking at Matt, puzzled.

"I know it's late... but you don't have to go already do you?" His voice was wistful, a downcast look flitting across his face.

'Yes.' He thought it vehemently, 'I have to go because I don't want to look at you and know that it might be the last time I see you looking back at me the way you always do. I don't want to wake up one day and find a stranger where my brother should be. I don't want to see you falling apart and be helpless to do anything about it.' "I-"

"Mattie... Matt, please." Desperation twisted his brother's voice, forcing it lower and hoarse, a thin sound of agony. "Reste, s'il te plait... " Alfred closed the distance between them with a choked noise, arms wrapping tightly around Matthew, the edge of his glasses scraping the tender skin of Canada's neck. The small hurt went unnoticed as he returned the embrace, rubbing at his Alfred's back as he felt the first warm teardrops soaking into his shirt. "Please... don't... It wasn't supposed to be this way..." Fingernails dug into his back, even through the fabric, but the pain was meaningless. Matthew bit down on his tongue, tasting the salt-copper of blood and struggling not to cry himself.

He was too late... his brother was already broken.

-

Translation:

"Reste, s'il te plait... " is "Please stay"

I wanted to use Cajun French, but this will do for the time being. If I can find someone versed in Cajun, I'll be sure to make any corrections. I just think Matt and Al talking to each other in French is very compelling. How many people even think about the fact that Alfred probably DOES know French?

I also don't know why people ignore the fact that, as America, Alfred should also show some of the traits of the south - not just the cowboy or redneck stereotype, but the Southern Gentleman as well, especially considering the aristocracy of the Old South.

More of the Canada/America interaction to come in the next chapter. This one was so long, I had to split it into two.


	6. Chapter 6

The Burdens We Bear (6/8)

-

- March 23, 1863 -

Even with the war going on, spring at his brother's house was beautiful. Matthew paused before reaching the building, eyes widening as he saw the doors flung open, the curtains drawn loosely and flapping in the gentle breeze. Given the precariousness of the war, it seemed like an unnecessary risk, even for America. Flicking his tongue across his lips, he slowly approached, feeling a building sense of heaviness in his heart. His steps went quiet as he eased up to the open door, the spike of cold fear lancing through his gut an unfamiliar and unwelcome sensation. He peered inside, worries surging as he saw his brother sprawled on the wooden floor of the foyer, arms and legs akimbo - a broken doll.

He was at Alfred's side in a heartbeat, reaching out one hand to brush his fingers across his brother's cheek. His fears began to ebb as he felt the warmth of America's skin, and then those blue eyes were opening and his brother was looking at him, bleary with sleep. "Mm.... Mattie?"

His arms were around America in an instant, relief clawing its way from his throat in short bursts as his brother blinked at him, raising one hand to pat at his back a couple of times. He almost yelled, the words instead coming out as a tight whisper. "You scared me, you idiot!" Biting back all of the things he wanted to say, none of them very soothing, he instead gritted out a question, "Why were you on the floor?"

"Because..." America slowly sat up, brushing a hand across his forehead. "My back is killing me." Canada smiled sympathetically, all the encouragement that Alfred needed to seize upon the situation. "I could really use a massage." It was less a subtle hint than a brick to the head, but Matt was still high on his giddy relief and it wasn't like he minded much, just this once. He did insist they head to the bedroom, so they could sit on the bed. His hands kneaded at his brother's back and shoulders, eliciting a pleased purr from America.

Perhaps the offer was just out of gratitude at being free of any further pain, but even though he was caught off-guard when America invited him to stay for food afterwards, he smiled and told his brother he would be delighted. The feeling didn't extend to his stomach when he was reminded of their very different culinary upbringings, but Alfred looked so pleased that he ate the food anyway, consoling himself that it wasn't as bad as Arthur's cooking.

Almost. But not quite.

-

- April 4, 1863 -

"What do you think of Kanawha?"

"Huh?" Matthew turned a little to look at his brother, who was sitting at the desk with a look of intense focus on his face. Alfred was tapping the feathered end of the quill pen against his cheek, splattering ink across his fingers. The mess went unnoticed, except for Al briefly rubbing at a spreading black stain on his cuff and only making it worse.

"Kanawha." America's blue eyes locked with his violet ones, and Canada struggled for a moment to recall what he knew of his brother's native languages.

"Is that Cherokee?" He hedged, wondering why Alfred cared what he thought about official documentation.

"Iroquoi," A smile curled across his brother's lips, a little wry. "I know what you're thinking. I just want to... I don't know... remember where we come from, I guess." He lowered his head for a moment and Matt knew he was thinking about the Trail of Tears, of the many proud people who had once inhabited his land when he'd had still been wild: feckless and unbound. He understood America's feelings, but not why he was being asked. He gave a careful nod, trusting that his brother would not be able to keep anything to himself for long.

When America leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his belly and crooning the odd word in that pleased tone, it finally dawned on Matt that Alfred had been talking about baby names. Emotions skittered through him like so many little insects, tripping over each other in their haste. Surprise, first and foremost, that his brother would ask - America had always named his own states, with only a few exceptions and he'd never bothered getting the opinion of anyone other than the child's father, even in those cases. Following quick on surprise's heels was pride - 'I matter enough to ask' - and then fear - 'what if he was just talking to himself and didn't even know I was here?'

America's hand touched his arm and he blinked, looking up and feeling his fear melting away beneath the warmth in his brother's eyes. "Do you like it?" He asked, and Canada nodded - would have agreed to any name that might have spilled from his brother's lips right now, no matter how stupid - because the feeling expanding in his chest was like the second coming of spring. His doubts gave way to shocks of daffodils and fine sprays of baby's breath and the pale pink of cherry blossoms, his smile somewhat foolish.

"I love it." He said, not knowing what Kanawha meant and not caring. When Alfred beamed, stroking his cheek and then giggling at the black splatter of ink he'd left alongside Matthew's nose, he could only laugh along, soft and delighted and wondering when America had discovered the secret of flight, because his feet just didn't want to stay on the ground anymore.

Two days later, Alfred told him, not without a hint of regret, that his boss's people didn't like the name Kanawha and that the new state would have to be called something else.

Canada pressed his brother's hands between his own, "Well, whatever they say, I guess the baby will always be Kanawha to us, right?" The look on America's face made this tiny gesture more than worth it.

Even if he still didn't know what the hell Kanawha meant.

-

- April 12, 1863 -

Canada felt himself twist a little as America unwrapped the gift he'd brought. The one time that his brother's habit of tearing the wrappings heedlessly would have been of some benefit - allowing him to find out his reaction more quickly, that would have been something at least - America was actually taking his time. Matthew clenched his hands, willing his normally rambunctious twin to just get it over with, damn it all.

As the last of the covering fell away, it revealed a soft mound of fabric beneath. It was simple enough - a baby blanket - but Matthew had taken his brother's colors and woven them into the shape of the American flag, with one extra star added for the baby. In hindsight he wasn't sure if it was the wisest move, considering what had happened with Kansas... but America hadn't lost a baby before then and he had no reason to expect he'd lose this one too.

Alfred stared down at the blanket, silent for so long that Matt began to worry. He didn't like it... And after all the time he'd put into making it, knowing that America was going through so many difficulties of late. All he'd wanted was to make his brother smile again.

He needed that smile back...

"Matt-" Alfred's voice faltered and Canada felt his heart fling itself at his ribcage over and over, trying to tear its way out of his chest. He suspected he was about to be sick. "You made this yourself?" A faint note of disbelief colored his voice and Matthew nodded, numb.

What happened next was too quick for his brain to register, arms thrown around him and Alfred's blonde hair tickling at the line of his jaw. He stiffened, hands rising a little before hesitating just shy of touching the other nation's back. "Do-" He swallowed, forced the words past the lump in his throat. "Do you like it?"

When Alfred pulled away far enough to look at him, there was an earnest warmth glittering in his eyes. "Nobody has ever done something like this for me before." He smoothed the red, white and blue blanket across his knees, his touch gentle - reverent. "I love it." He leaned in and Canada froze, feeling the warmth of his brother's breath on his cheek. For one wild moment he thought Alfred was about to kiss him, a move that would have been far too European if it were actually platonic, but instead he only breathed a few words that were baffling enough on their own. "Thank you..."

"You - you're welcome." He barely managed the words without stuttering. America nuzzled into the curve of his neck and Matt finally allowed his hands to settle, fingers tracing the line of Alfred's shoulder blades. It was hard to think with Al so close, every small, pleased noise that his brother made it harder to think.

It wasn't until Alfred pulled away to give him that brilliant smile and he felt his heart do a sudden flip-flop in his chest that realization managed to shoulder its way past his self defenses. It surfaced in a brilliant burst of stars, a moment to late for him to stop himself as he leaned forward, lips pressing against America's. His world dissolved into white around him as he felt the kiss searing its way into his soul.

He finally understood, as he felt that brief moment of hesitation in his brother bleed away into a needful clinging. Later he would have to play back every memory of the past few months, to find that point where he'd started to slide down the slippery slope, but as his hands crept beneath the helm of Alfred's shirt, fingers touching the sun-kissed expanse of Alfred's back, the only thing that mattered to him anymore was right in front of him.

They'd had sex once before - but it had been nothing like this. Sex with Alfred had been possibly the most brisk, businesslike encounter that Matthew had ever had the ill fortune to witness: with Al showing up on his doorstep, herding him back towards the bed without allowing him the opportunity to protest, and then proceeding to stroke and fondle him until he was so hard that he could have punched his way through steel. And the only thing on his mind as Alfred sank down on him, riding him to completion, was "what the hell?" America had left just as quickly as he'd come, leaving Matt sprawled and sticky on the bed, wondering if his brother had lost his mind. A week later, the news was making its way around the gossip circuit, Arthur was livid and Matthew couldn't help but feel used. A little under nine months later and Michigan was born. Canada never even knew for sure if the baby was his or not.

In the here and now though, all of that was forgotten. Alfred was crooning sweet nothings in his ear and the curve of America's belly beneath his fingertips was a pointed reminder that this was probably all rampant hormones on Al's part. Nor was that the only reason for his doubts...

'America negotiates on his back,' France had told him once - almost fondly - the only nation who could have said such a thing and not meant it as an insult. 'Sometimes on his knees or all fours. He may be a graceless fool, but he can be so very good when he wants something badly enough.' Family or not, he would have hit France for saying it, except that it was true. As his fingers traced their way across Alfred's body, mapping out every centimeter of his skin, he tried not to think about how many other nations had already explored this territory. He found a spot along America's spine that caused his brother to buck against him, voice pitching low and husky, and he couldn't help the turn of his thoughts.

'Who discovered this, Al?' he asked, in his head, because he dared not out loud. 'Was it Arthur? Or was Francis the first one to learn how you like to be touched here?' He recognized the jealousy in him, now that he knew what to look for, and he was surprised. Matt knew he had no call to feel that way when they were brothers and nothing more.

It was hard to remember that fact when America was kissing at the column of his throat, hands tracing their way down his chest. Considering both his brother's reputation and the one previous experience they'd shared, the way Alfred's hand lightly palmed the bulge in his pants - the motion almost hesitant - was oddly endearing. They fumbled together, eyes meeting when their fingers bumped and tangled for a few seconds, laughter bubbling on both their lips and only muffled between them as they kissed again. Their glasses clinked together, both of them drawing back for a second. Matthew reached out, tugging his brother's glasses off, folding them with slow care before setting them aside. He didn't remove his own... he wasn't about to let his bad vision prevent him from seeing this.

A light trailed along the back of his wrist as he wrapped his fingers around America, learning the feel of him, discovering the meaning of each small sound that escaped his twin's lips. It was a sweet torment that he wasn't sure he wanted to end. Alfred's ankle brushed against the backs of his thighs, accompanied by a low, needy keen, and Matthew relented. His fingers shook as he prepared the eager nation beneath him. He pressed forward, felt America tense for a few long seconds before relaxing around him.

His entry was smooth, his cheeks flushed as he eased inside, a puzzle piece sliding into place. There was no awkwardness left, he fit so naturally between his brother's thighs that he wondered how he'd gone without for so long. The redness coloring his cheeks deepened as he stretched a little, looking down between them, to the point where they were joined, almost disbelieving the fact. Fingers slid beneath his chin, forcing him to look up and meet Alfred's gaze, wondering if he was imagining the dusting of pink across those cheeks. Hands cupped at his face, a thumb brushing along the line of his jaw as they kissed - long and slow - rocking together in a silent dance of bodies. He could feel every breath reverberating through him, and as need devolved their motions into a more frantic slide of skin against skin, he heard America whispering his name and felt himself come undone.

As they lay cradled together in the afterglow, America tugged the blankets over them, nuzzling against Canada's neck with a sleepy, pleased noise. Matthew's arm slid around the other nation's shoulders, wondering how long it was going to be before he was going to regret this. If anyone could be said to have some permanent claim on America, it was Arthur...

He couldn't even fool himself into believing this wasn't going to hurt - that this had just been sex for the sake of a few moments of pleasure. Alfred was dozing against his chest and he looked so much sweeter in his sleep, when his boisterousness and enthusiasm had finally worn down and left him curled among the blankets like a kitten. It wouldn't last.

'Sooner or later, this carriage is going to change back into a pumpkin,' he thought, only a little bitter, because as much as he wanted to hate America, he just couldn't.

"J'veux pas t'aimer d'cette façon, imbécile!" Matthew muttered, pressing his lips to his brother's forehead and closing his eyes, waiting for the morning to bring the night's sweet spell to an end.

-

- May 4, 1863 -

Even after a couple of weeks, he was still surprised to wake up in America's bed. Canada shifted, reaching out an arm to grasp his brother... reaching further and finding only a tangle of blankets. He sat up quickly, floundering through the covers before sliding out of the large bed. He struggled into his pants before making his way out to the kitchen, freezing as he caught a glimpse of Alfred seated at the dining room table. Relief lapped through him and he allowed himself a soft sigh as he approached, noting with a slight flush that America was clad in his own silky white shirt, the bottom edge barely coming down long enough to be decent. Matthew padded up behind his brother, unable - or unwilling - to resist this urge. His arms wrapped around America from behind and he could feel Alfred leaning back against him.

"Mmm... morning, Matt..." His brother purred, making a slight gesture with one hand that caused the hot coffee in his cup to splash alarmingly. Alfred chuckled softly as Matthew pressed kisses to the back of his neck. "Someone's feeling happy this morning... but...hm..." He turned his head a little, blue eyes glinting with amusement. "Can I finish my coffee first, before you get all frisky?"

"I don't know," Canada smiled, "_Can_ you?"

A smirk curled at the corners of America's lips, but he only raised the cup and took another sip, the motion slow and deliberate. It was a challenge, plain and simple, and Matthew smiled a little himself as he rubbed one hand innocently at his brother's swollen belly before trailing it lower. He hesitated as he dipped beneath the long, loose shirt and realized that Alfred was naked beneath it. The other nation shivered at his touch, taking another pull at his coffee while using his free hand to guide Matt's fingers. As Matthew began to stroke at his brother, he noted with a hint of amusement that Alfred was refusing to relinquish his drink, even though he was on the verge of choking on the coffee whenever Matt found a particularly sensitive spot. His twin was hellbent on having his coffee and drinking it too.

Even expecting it, Matthew was surprised when the cup finally slid from his brother's fingers, landing on the table, tipped. It was only the instinctive need to protect himself from the scalding hot beverage that caused him to move so quickly, grabbing the back of Alfred's chair and dragging him a couple of inches as the first drops of coffee spilled over the edge of the table. As soon as his heart rate had returned to normal, Matt found it in himself to smile, a bit smug. "It looks like you were wrong," He teased.

"Hmm... looks like it." And for being as terrible a loser as America always was, this was one contest where the outcome made no difference at all. He dragged Matthew's head down, sealing their lips together in a thorough kiss. Matt could feel his twin's arousal through the fabric of his sleeping pants, growling against Alfred's mouth. For a moment the two of them rubbed against each other, flushed and panting.

Then America shoved him away, doubling over in his chair and hissing.

Panic flushed any hints of arousal from Canada's veins, and he dropped to one knee beside his brother's chair, "What's wrong?"

"Battle..." Alfred turned to him, strained but smiling. "It happens." Obviously... there was a war going on, no matter how domestic and blissful their relationship seemed of late. Sometimes Matt almost let himself forget that fact. But when America pushed to his feet, the lines of his body firm with purpose, Canada felt confusion wash through him.

"What are you doing?"

"I-" Alfred hesitated, halfway out of the shirt already, "I need to be at this one."

"You need to-" He could understand the words, but what America was saying made no sense at all. "Why?"

There was none of the playful glitter in America's eyes as the other nation turned to look at him, just a raw need he couldn't quite understand. "I don't know..." A sigh. "I just need to, okay? It's important." Hesitation and then, quieter, "Will you come with me?"

Refusing would have been the wise thing to do. It was what he should have done. It was what he meant to do.

"Yes."

-

It wasn't until halfway to Virginia that it dawned on him, his brother was wearing grey. Canada faltered, came to a slow halt. America pulled to a stop a few steps later, looking back at him with a concern in his eyes that was effective at concealing the madness Matthew knew must have been there. "What's wrong?"

"Are you sure it's a good idea?" Matt backpedaled verbally, "-going out to fight in your condition?"

By the slight smile on America's face, his brother didn't share his concerns. "Don't worry about it, Mattie. It's not like anyone will be able to tell. You'll see, it'll be just like always." It would never have occurred to him to be worried about some human's reaction to seeing a heavily pregnant male, as unusual a sight as it might be. He worried now, even though he knew this had to have happened before with as many states as America had. Alfred's cavalier attitude did nothing to lay his fears to rest.

And he was wearing grey... did that mean he had a death wish?

Canada fell silent as he followed America onto the field of battle. They weren't his people, but he wanted to flinch at the heavy scent of blood and death. It was brother against brother, the feelings of hate and betrayal pounding at him from both sides - a choking miasma that permeated the air until it was too thick to breathe. He turned away from the carnage, only to catch a glimpse of Alfred's face.

He was smiling.

Things moved in slow motion as his brother raised his gun, his eyes narrowing, flint grey and impassive. Alfred squeezed the trigger and a Union soldier's chest exploded with blood. Again, with single minded precision, then Virginia herself was coming toward them, austere and serious, a goddess of the battlefield.

"What are you doing here?!" She cocked her gun, pointed it at America's head and Canada stepped forward with some vague notion of stopping her before she could complete the action. "Don't even think about it, Uncle Matt. I don't care if the two of you are sleeping together now. You're not my father, and I will blow his fucking brains out if you take one more step."

Alfred ignored the exchange, reloading his weapon as though he didn't have a gun trained on him. He took vague aim and blue dissolved into red, another soldier crumpling, and Virginia hesitated for a second. Then America turned his head to look at her and a long silence stretched out between them. From this angle, Matthew couldn't see the expression on his brother's face but, whatever it was, Virginia's anger bled away into wariness, then confusion.

"Is that how it is then? Are you on our side?" And then, before America could say anything about 'sides', "That damn New York! And Massachusetts, peddling his righteous crap." She lowered the weapon, holding out one gloved hand to her mother/father. A chill ran down Matt's spine at the solemnity of it, the import. Could America actually align with the Confederates? It was so hard to be sure of anything he thought he knew when his brother lept so easily between both sides. America's hand reached out, taking his daughter's, and he gave her a smile that never quite reached his eyes. Alarms went off in Canada's head but he bit his tongue, swallowing the words before they could come. This was America's war.

Besides, Virginia was still armed and showing every sign of being ready to shoot at the slightest provocation. Matthew wasn't going to fight - but he had no intention of leaving Alfred alone with the Confederates either.

He'd never seen his brother so cold before. America was a hot-blooded nation, quick to laugh and quick to anger. But as the battle raged, Alfred remained passive throughout. Fighting died for the most part as night came and though Canada fought the drowsiness, he found himself dozing off. When he startled awake a few hours later, nothing had changed. America didn't even acknowledge his presence. It was such a far cry from the playfulness of the previous morning. The world had been so close to perfect less than twenty four hours ago.

True to Alfred's words of the previous day, no one attacked or even approached them. It wasn't quite invisibility, but it was close - there was a pervading sense of discomfort every time someone's eyes looked right past them. A while into the resumed battling and Matthew's foot was going numb from standing so still. He turned to his brother to let Alfred know he really needed to move before the limb began that pins and needles sensation, but froze as he caught the motion of Al's lips. America was mouthing some words that Canada strained to hear.

He was counting. The numbers rose in erratic bursts, with no pattern he could discern. When a soldier in greys took a shot tot he side of the head, twitching and gasping on the ground like a landed fish, he understood. The soldier burbled his last breath and America raised his count by one. Matthew closed his eyes, feeling despair and the beginnings of anger nipping at him. "We should go, Alfred." He brushed his hand against his brother's arm, not knowing why he felt this odd sense of urgency.

"Just a little longer." America said, his voice soft and distant. Matthew shook his head, shifting his hand to take his brother's, jerking a little as America pulled away once more. "It's over Matt." He felt a cold crawling sensation up his spine and he looked at Alfred, for a brief moment thinking that his brother was referring to them - what they had. That fear was laid to rest immediately. "They're retreating."

And they were. The Union forces were drawing back as the sky darkened. The Confederates weren't celebrating their victory just yet - although Virginia appeared confident as she invited the two into her camp. Matthew sat, watching the flicker of firelight on his brother's face and wishing they were back at Alfred's house, cuddled close in Alfred's bed. But his brother was refusing to leave.

Partway into the night, there was an odd sensation as he looked at America - a glimpse of more a color more blue than grey in his eyes. Canada's breath caught for a second, eyes narrowing. If the color was actually different, he couldn't be sure as his brother lowered his head, breathing a word too soft for him to hear. The sudden cascade of gunshots made him jump, then America was on his feet, helping him up.

"Tom..." Virginia's face twisted in pain and she dropped to one knee, a hand clutching at her left shoulder, near her heart. She raised her head and the look in her eyes went from shock to anger in seconds. Shoving away several of her men who were rushing to help her, she pushed herself to her feet. She gestured to one of the troops, "You - find out what's going on!" From the look on her face as she shrugged out of her uniform jacket, this was just a confirmation of something Virginia must already have known. The man ran off, and Virginia pressed a cloth to her bleeding shoulder. She didn't look at America, but when she spoke again, her words were cold.

"I know North Carolina isn't enough of a fool to tell her men to fire on mine, even in the dark. Someone gave that order." A long silence stretched out, then she finally turned her head to look at Alfred. "Only one other person can give overriding orders to our men besides us." America was silent still and Virginia made a sound like a laugh, but cutting. "You're not even going to try to deny it?"

"No." When America lifted his head, he had a tiny smile on his face, a wry look that wasn't really humor. "No, I'm not. You wouldn't believe it if I did, so what's the point."

"The point is..." Virginia reached down, pulled out her gun, "It might have kept you alive for a little longer while I was trying to figure out if you were lying or not." Matthew moved forward, reaching out to grab at her weapon, the motion stalled midway as Virginia cold-cocked him across the face with the butt of her gun. The world went black for a few seconds.

He groaned as consciousness found him again, raising one hand to his head and wincing at the throbbing pain that erupted at the touch. Matthew blinked a few times, his vision hazy for a couple of seconds before clearing. As he sat up, he saw the two still facing off, Alfred still impassive and Virginia bristling.

"-Or is it that you're already trying to replace us?" She growled. Canada had missed some of the conversation, but even so it was easy to tell what she was referring to. Her deep blue eyes flashed and she shifted the gun lower, until the muzzle bumped against Alfred's stomach. "Maybe you're not the one I should be getting rid of here."

What came next happened so fast that Matthew barely saw it. America was in motion, a grey and golden blur, then the gun hit the ground as Virginia recoiled, one hand clutching at her nose and mouth. Blood dribbled from between her fingers, her eyes briefly glazed, disbelief darkening the already midnight blue until they looked almost black. Canada stared as well, looking at his brother like Alfred was some kind of alien. America stared down at his daughter, unaffected by her surprise and her anger. When he spoke, his voice came out much lower than usual, harsh. "Threaten him again and I will end you."

America's anger seemed to surprise even him, because he recoiled a second later. His hesitation had no effect on Virginia who was straightening up, her anger prickling in the air like needles. "I hate you..." She choked slightly, tearing her hand away from her bleeding face and spitting the words at Alfred venomously. Despite his earlier threat to her, Alfred flinched at the words, taking a step backward.

Canada expected that America's daughter was about to have them both rounded up and shot, so her words made him wonder if he was suffering from a concussion. "Get out of here." She hissed, the way she said it reminding him so much of his twin that he felt nauseous.

"Virginia..." Alfred began, hesitant. Perhaps he had some vague notion of apologizing...

"OUT!" She whirled on them, gun at the ready, and even Alfred knew when discretion was the better part of valor. The twins staggered out of her camp, only their grip on each other keeping them on their feet as they made their way north. It felt like they were running forever.

Dawn was threatening as they finally reached Alfred's house, both of them winded and leaning heavily on each other. Matthew leaned against the wall as soon as they were inside, taking his glasses off and rubbing one hand across his eyes. "God, Al... why?" He hissed, forced the words out. "Why did you do that? What the hell were you thinking?" Now that they were safe, his fear was being replaced with anger - the emotion he had not dared to feel all this time. "You could have been killed! And that aside, what possessed you to tell North Carolina's troops to fire while we were still in Confederate territory? In your own daughter's goddamn camp of all places? Do you want to lose this war?!"

His brother turned away from him, shoulders hunched a little. "I don't want to talk about it." Small. Sullen.

He should have left it at that - would have, under most circumstances. "I don't care what you want!" Then, as his words faded, disgust washed over him, at Alfred. At himself. "God... I've got to go. I still have my own affairs to take care of." He'd been letting things slip, of late, so much time he'd been spending with America. In a softer voice: "And I just can't be around you right now..." Canada was reaching for the door when a hand on his arm drew him up short. He turned a little, despite his better judgment, looking at Alfred.

"Don't go..." America swallowed, his grip tightened. "Please."

So he stayed. He sat himself down on Alfred's couch while his brother crept off to the bedroom, dozing for a little while before he was woken with a gentle shake and Alfred's voice whispering "Come to bed" to him. Matthew cursed himself for being an idiot and a soft touch, but he couldn't say he regretted it much as he slid into his brother's bed and felt Alfred curl up against him. The sun was coming up as the two of them fell asleep, wrapped up in each other.

-

- May 16, 1863 -

"Maybe I could send her a card. Do you think there's a card for that?" America's expression was so earnest that Canada wanted to laugh. The urge didn't quite overpower the need to smack his brother upside the head for being such a moron. She might have been Alfred's daughter, but at the moment Virginia was showing herself to be quite willing to carve the nation who'd given her birth into bloody, quivering chunks. He wasn't sure he would have been so forgiving in Alfred's stead.

"Sure Al," He replied, deadpan. "Just look for one in the 'You're trying to kill me, but hey, sorry I shot your general' section. It's right in between 'Please stop sending your immigrants, you freeloader' and 'Congratulations on your regime overthrow - we never liked that bastard anyway.'"

Alfred's expression never wavered. "Well then, I suppose that'll work." And when Matthew looked at him, disbelief flitting across his face at the thought that even America could be that clueless. America met his gaze, unassuming, then slowly he lowered his head and let out a soft bark of laughter. "Don't give me that look, Mattie. I may be a total idiot, but I'm not stupid." He looked at his brother from beneath the messy spill of his bangs, raising both hands to press the tips of his index fingers against the corners of his brother's lips. "Smile."

Canada swatted his hands away, feeling something beginning to boil over in him. "You're not taking this seriously!"

There was something sad in his brother's smile but America did not immediately refute his words. Something about that look made Matthew's heart drop into his stomach. "I can't, Matt..." Alfred brushed a hand down the front of his uniform, tracing each button before letting his palm settle gently on his belly. "If I let it get to me, if I give it a moment to really sink in, I think I'll go crazy." He ran one hand through his golden hair, breathing out a soft sigh. "I want to let them go, Matt." Canada jerked at the words, disbelief crawling sluggishly through his veins. "I want to let them go, but I can't. I'm afraid..." His voice trailed off into a long silence.

"They're my children. My children... and I'm hurting them. But they're hurting me too..." Then, lower, words not meant for him to hear, "Did it hurt him this much... losing me?" He didn't say the name. He didn't have to.

Matthew had nothing to offer his brother, no words of solace to ease America's pain. He laid a gentle hand on Alfred's shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"Not as sorry as I am..." He barely heard it.

As Alfred curled against him on the bed they'd come to share more often than not in the last month, Matthew enfolded him in his arms. Even when sleep dragged Alfred down into the dark, Canada kept his quiet vigil. His palm curved to the contours of America's belly, feeling the baby shift against his fingers and wondering if this child was going to save his brother or if it would be the last tiny cut that would bleed America dry.

-

Translation:

"J'veux pas t'aimer d'cette façon, imbécile!" is "I don't want to love you this way, idiot!"

Notes/References:

Kanawha was the name originally considered for the state of West Virginia. Historically it was rejected because there was already a county by that name and they wanted to avoid confusion - IRL this happened before Al would have become pregnant in this story, but I still like the idea of him loving that as a possible name. Kanawha derives from the Iroquoi word 'Kaihniwha" meaning "waterway" - it's also the name of a river.

The Battle of Chancellorsville was a major Civil War battle that took place in Virginia. The Confederate Army was outnumbered over two to one, but due to General Robert E. Lee's leadership, they successfully defeated the better supplied and better equipped Union forces. In my version of Hetalia-verse, Alfred was more closely aligned to the South at that particular moment in history and this was one of the reasons the Northern Army floundered so badly. And yes, in the story, Alfred was the one who called for the Second Corps to fire on the returning Jackson - the friendly fire wound that would lead to his death a little over a week later. His death was a major blow to the Confederate side and is attributed by some as one of the reasons for their eventual loss to the Union forces.


	7. Chapter 7

The Burdens We Bear (7/8)

-

Note: No sex, but a possibly disturbing depiction of childbirth. Consider yourself warned.

-

- June 19, 1863 -

England would never have admitted it afterwards, but he'd already been waiting to be called. Of course, he'd thought it would be America. Rather, he'd hoped it would be America, and that he wouldn't have spent the last week camping out off of the eastern border of Canada for no reason. Matt knew he was here - it would have been difficult for him not to, considering how Arthur had been grilling him for any info on his brother's condition. He thought Matthew would tell Alfred that he was there, and that... well... that America would want him to come.

He hadn't been expecting Canada to show up again to fetch him, breathless and desperate and covered in his brother's blood.

"Alfred needs you Arthur," Matthew said, the only words he could spare before he dashed off again, leaving England sitting there and trying to figure out what the hell just happened. Arthur was on his feet before it fully sank in, tearing after Canada as quickly as he could manage. It wasn't the invitation he wanted, but it would have to do.

It wasn't until he was standing outside the door of America's house that he hesitated, only entering after a long pause. Matthew was already in the foyer waiting for him.

"What's with all the hurry, Canada-" He began, then was immediately cut off.

"I know you too haven't been getting along... well... for a while," Matthew said, plucking at the edge of one of his sleeves in a nervous gesture. "But you still care about him, Arthur. And... he needs you right now."

"Matt..." How could he even begin to try and explain the complexity of his relationship with America? Because it was something like hate, but something like love too. Could he bring himself to say that even if his former colony was a selfish idiot and a thoughtless fool, he couldn't help but want him still. Everything he'd ever felt could not have been simply washed away by America's rebellion against him. Could he tell Canada this, when he could barely admit it to himself?

"Even if-" Matthew was still talking, heedless of what was going on in England's head. "Even if you don't like him, Arthur, I'd like... I've never asked you for anything before, but please, just do this for me."

How unlike Canada to beg...

"I love him, Arthur." His thoughts came derailed at those words, the only reason he couldn't interrupt Matthew before things went downhill any further. "Maybe I'm just being naive, because I know how he is but I think - I hope - he feels the same." Canada's voice was so quiet that Arthur had to strain to hear the words. "I can't lose him..."

Oh, Alfred... England fought back the surge of betrayal, not sure if his anger was towards Canada or America. Maybe Matt was wrong and he was just misinterpreting Alfred's behavior toward him? There were too damn many maybes. He was torturing himself trying to make sense of it all. Especially when he couldn't help the suspicion that Canada was right. Perhaps they were already long past the time where America could have belonged to him. 'Wasted all those years, not realizing I already had what I wanted until he threw it back in my face and told me he didn't need me anymore. And now...'

He hid his grimace as best he could, trying to mask it with a reassuring smile. "You won't, Matthew. America's strong, he'll be fine."

Somewhere in the back of his mind he was registering Canada's relief but he was already pushing towards the door of Alfred's room, not sure if he could look into Matthew's violet eyes and not want to lash out. Arthur regretted his haste as he stepped into the room, straining to see more clearly in the dim light. He could smell blood on the air again, as he had with Kansas, and he felt fear licking at his gut. "America?"

His former colony was on the bed, lying on his back. Even from the door, he could hear the harshness of Alfred's labored breaths and see the sheen of sweat and blood on his skin. It was as bad as he'd feared.

"Arthur..." The sound of America's voice drifted to him, drawn and weary. He wanted to be angry, to tear into America for this: for letting it get so bad, for not trusting him - 'But why should he trust you?,' a nasty little voice in his head insisted - for... for leaving him. For not loving him, god damn it. 'I gave you everything you wanted, America. I would have given you anything.' Anything but what Alfred had wanted most. He wanted to be furious, miffed, annoyed, anything at all but the way he felt when he heard his former colony's voice. All it took was his name in that tone, the way the pain and exhaustion of America's efforts brought a softness and a vulnerability to his features, and his rage melted away. "You came."

It was a struggle to keep things under control when that expression was all he'd ever wanted to see. He cleared his throat, averting his gaze for a second. "Of course I did." 'You needed me,' he thought, willing Alfred to hear the words he couldn't bring himself to say aloud. As he met the younger nation's gaze again, he saw the surprise in them and it made him defensive, America giving him that look. "Did you really think I'd let you go through this alone?" He tried to keep his voice filled with annoyance and not let anything else creep through.

"Yes." So blunt. So very like America. England wanted to smack him for the gracelessness of it. So this was what Alfred really thought of him? Underneath the thin veneer of anger, there was a roiling core of hurt at America's answer. He took a step backwards without thinking about it, caught in the need to retreat to somewhere quiet and curl himself around his wound. He justified it as his indignation at America's ingratitude. After all, he'd come all this way just to have his concern thrown right back at him like so much garbage. England turned his back, his blood pounding in his ears so loudly that he almost missed it when Alfred continued. "You were never here before..."

He froze, all of his thoughts grinding to a halt as the words echoed through his skull. America sounded as lost as England felt, and although he wanted to deny what he was hearing, he couldn't. It was true.

It was true.

England had never thought about it before, but now his mind played over it again and again - caught on an endless loop. He had fathered the overwhelming bulk of Alfred's states and he'd never... Not once...

His hand darted out and caught America's as his knees hit the floor beside the bed. "I'm here now." He whispered the words, forcing them past the tightness of his throat - past the stubborn shield of his own pride, past the small voice that was insisting that this baby probably wasn't even his. Here and now, none of that mattered. "I'm not going anywhere." And the words were a promise, as much as if he'd slipped a ring onto Alfred's finger.

Tired blue eyes flitted to his face and he hoped America could read his sincerity. Maybe he did, because their fingers twined together more tightly for a few seconds before the younger nation tore his hand away with a muffled grunt, shifting his body to grip at the wooden headboard. A string of curses fell from Alfred's lips as he visibly struggled through a series of contractions. Arthur reached out a hand, felt the tight knot of Alfred's belly. "How long have you been in labor?" Brisk, businesslike, because the last thing America needed right now was for him to lose his head.

The voice that answered him was not America's. He almost jumped, feeling a flicker of shame as he remembered Canada was here too. "It's been thirty-seven hours since I got here." And the exhaustion showed as much on Matthew as it did on his brother - the blonde was visibly dragging, every motion coming slowly. Arthur could read how much Canada loved his fool of a sibling in the quiet pain gleaming in his eyes.

Thirty-seven hours... Why would Alfred ever want to put himself through this - much less want it so badly that he would practically force another country into his bed?

Alfred's voice cut through his thoughts. "There's something wrong." Few things could have brought his heart to a stuttering halt the way those three quiet words did. England's people had been having babies for centuries, he knew the statistics. They played grimly through his mind before he could manage to banish them. Something was wrong.

Arthur struggled to recall some of the things he knew about childbirth, gleaning the knowledge of his people - all the mothers and midwives back through the ages. His own composure staggered him as he shifted, walked more toward the foot of the bed. Steady fingers slid down between the younger nation's legs as he bent to take a look.

The smell of blood was overwhelming, frightening, though at least some of it was from other wounds. England noticed distantly when a new cut started to open up near Alfred's knee - some battle raging among his children, inflicted on America by whatever force had created their kind. That worry was lesser in his mind as he slid a probing finger into Alfred's body. He'd never done this in a nonsexual context before, but that didn't matter either. The young nation was already fully dilated, but it didn't take a skilled midwife to realize what was wrong. His fingertip brushed across the delicate curve of a foot instead of the head that should have been there and Arthur's heart plummeted down past the wooden planks of the floor.

"It's breech..." He said, and damned himself for the words that had just dropped Alfred's chances of delivering a live baby to only one in ten.

The chances of a healthy baby were barely one in three...

Breech birth. It was something no expectant mother would ever want to hear - one of the many reasons that pregnancy was feared more than anticipated. Arthur didn't have the heart to finish his observations, knowing that even among breech babies, this was the worst possible position. A footling birth...

Thirty-seven hours... God... it might already be too late...

He couldn't bring himself to look at America, so he turned to Canada instead, struggling to remain outwardly calm. The concern glittering in Matthew's eyes was no better, especially considering how alike the North American twins looked. The boy was taking this remarkably well though, meeting Arthur's gaze with a steady determination. He'd almost forgotten that for all Matthew's civility and his quiet, calm demeanor, he and Alfred had been born from the same untamed continent. In Canada's eyes, there was evidence of the pure, wild spirit that was only ever visible in the new and the unspoiled.

"Tell me what I need to do, Arthur." As polite as the words were, they were a command and not a request. The tone made England a little uneasy in its familiarity - too much like America when he'd said he was no longer Arthur's little brother - but he forced himself to push those thoughts to the side for the time being.

"We'll need more linens-" He found himself listing by rote, "-hot water..." He traced the line of a burn that hadn't been there when he'd arrived, the edges were ragged, blood beginning to seep and it occurred to him that America was in as much danger as the baby, but for different reasons. Unwilling to let Alfred bleed to death while trying to keep his offspring alive, Arthur tore long strips off the cleaner parts of the sheets and began to use them as makeshift bandages. "- maybe a knife..." Canada paused, gaze turning sharp, and for just a moment he could sense a flicker of distrust from the younger nation. As though he would hurt America...

Let him think what he wanted, Arthur thought grimly, as long as he didn't try to stop him. He kept his back to Canada, not checking to see if the other country was actually doing what he'd asked. England was trying to find some sign of life in the child, the stillness of it shooting through him like arrows. His head was telling him the baby was already gone, and the pragmatic part of Arthur was trying to quash any small hope that lingered in his heart.

As hard as life was for his people, Arthur knew there were moments when one had to be sensible, to weigh the risks. When a woman was in danger of dying while giving birth - especially where the baby might already be dead - there was only one acceptable option, no matter how much his insides quailed at the thought.

Swallowing, feeling the way his heart was trying to tear its way out of his chest, he checked again, pressing his finger against the tiny foot, where the skin was still so thin and delicate. There was no hint of any pulse against his fingers, no motion. If he was wrong...

Alfred would never forgive him.

But America might never forgive him anyway, for the Revolution, for everything else. He would rather have America alive to go on hating him forever rather than let him die when there was something he could do about it. But god, he didn't want to do this.

"Why do you need this?" Matthew asked, as he pressed the hilt of the knife carefully into England's waiting palm.

He tried to ignore the look on Canada's face, wary but still trusting in his decisions. Somehow he doubted America would feel the same. He admired the steadiness of his own voice. "It's dead, Matthew." Dead, and if it didn't come out, then Alfred might be next. And America was not going to die. From the horror slowly spreading across the young nation's features, Canada understood what he was implying. England didn't care if Matt thought he was a monster for entertaining the notion of cutting a dead baby apart to save Alfred's life. He'd resigned himself to losing the child.

"No, Arthur." America's voice was weak, strained, but there was no revulsion on his face to match that on his twin's. "He's alive." Closing his eyes, Alfred drew a slow breath, the grip of his fingers on the coverlet tightening. "You won't do this." His lips pulled into a thin line as his grim thoughts were echoed across his expressive face.

"America-" He struggled for words to explain the severity of the situation, only to realize that Alfred already knew.

"If you need to use that knife, use it right, Iggy." America's fingers traced over the swell of his belly, a gutting motion and Arthur flinched.

"You can't be serious!" He tightened his grip on the hilt, staring down at the younger nation as though he might find some hint of absolution. "It would kill you..."

Those familiar blue eyes were deadly serious. "I won't lose another one... I can't." A strange gentleness flitted across America's face as he reached out a hand and curled his fingers around England's, keeping the knife from sliding from his shaking hand. "Do it. Do it or put the knife down." And when America's hand moved away from his own, the blade fell from his fingers and landed harmlessly among the crimson-stained sheets. Tears stung at his eyes and he fought them back. "Promise me, Arthur."

"What?" As though it mattered.

Fingers stroked across the ridges of his knuckles, soothing, as though he was the one in need of reassurance. "Promise me you'll stay this time." _No matter what happens._ He heard the rest of the words without America having to say them aloud.

"I promise..."

Alfred made a soft noise - satisfaction, perhaps - before turning his head a little to look at Matthew who was coming up on the other side of the bed. England felt a twist in his gut at the expression that passed between them, a knot that only grew tighter as Matt sat on the edge of the mattress, pressing their foreheads together. This was new... The soft sounds of French falling from Canada's lips did nothing to help the jealousy trying to assert itself.

"Peut importe c'qui arrive, j'vais être là. Je l'promets." Matthew was saying, and while Arthur had known Francis quite long enough to have picked up some of the language, he'd never really bothered to actually learn it. Besides, everything he needed to know was in the tone. As much as England wanted to read only a brotherly affection between the two - to dismiss Canada's earlier words as a fraternal emotion - the way Matthew brushed his fingers along Alfred's cheek, the casual familiarity between the two, that note in the young nation's voice...

'Canada, Alfred? Really?' Arthur turned his head away from them, giving himself a moment to pull his composure back together. He didn't want to think about losing to Matthew. America's pained grunt pulled him out of his spiral, and he forced his personal feelings aside for the moment.

If America wasn't going to let him remove the baby the expedient way - and there was no way in hell he was going to lay Alfred open like a gutted fish - then it meant they were going to have to do this the hard way.... Arthur closed his eyes for a second, taking a slow breath. "Matt." When Canada turned to look at him, his violet eyes flickered as soon as he caught a glimpse of England's expression. He shifted a little, brushing Alfred's cheek for a moment before easing closer to Arthur. "I need you to hold on to your brother..." Arthur continued, keeping his voice as soft as he could make it. Despite the continued wariness flitting across his face, Matthew nodded.

The young nation eased up beside his twin, leaning against the wooden headboard and wrapping his arms around his brother - gentle, but enough of an oddity to catch America's attention. "Mattie?" He murmured and Arthur could feel him tensing.

England gritted his teeth, hoping Canada had a firm grip as he knelt between Alfred's spread thighs. Lacking any sort of instruments at all, he was forced to improvise. His fingers traced the curve of the baby's foot, barely emerged. The angle was wrong somehow... it had to be. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself to his task, cupping the tiny foot carefully against his palm as he applied a bit of pressure, forcing the tiny limb back inside for a moment. Bearing down further, he could feel the resistance in America's body - at the moment, all of Alfred's instinct was to force the baby out and England's efforts had no effect at first. As much as Arthur wanted to be gentle, he couldn't afford to - the baby had to come out, but it wouldn't happen unless he could fix the issue that was keeping the child pinned in place.

America must have realized it too - his feet braced against the mattress, muscles quivering, but he held himself steadier than England would ever have believed possible, given these circumstances. The tips of Arthur's fingers slid inside and he kept going, unable to cringe away as fresh blood stained his rolled up cuffs. He touched the tiny leg, followed it up enough to feel the twist of the baby's hips - slightly off-centered. The other foot was curled higher than the first.

He hesitated, noticing the crimson stain on the sheets that was spreading with alarming speed, not daring to force any deeper. America's breath was coming shorter than before, but when Arthur looked up to see his expression, he seemed less perturbed than either of the other two. Blue eyes narrowed a little, then one hand lowered to brush at England's hair, fretful. "Do what you have to do." Those six words had given him Carte Blanche... whatever he had to do. Damn it.

"You're bleeding-" He began, wondering if he was protesting more for Alfred's sake or his own.

"There's no other choice. Just do it, Iggy." England's expression must've been something pathetic, because America's eyes and tone both softened, a hand slid across his cheek in a gentle caress. "It'll be okay..."

It didn't matter that Alfred was lying - he even had that look on his face that England recognized from when America had been only a small colony, the few times he'd actually dared to tell a lie. Whether or not things would be okay was irrelevant. America was right. There was no choice.

One of Arthur's fingers found the curve of the baby's hip, traced it. Then he did what he hadn't wanted to do. His free hand slid down to join the other, applying an undeniable force. He only had to get fingers far enough in to find some grip... held... twisted. He was thankful for Matthew's presence as America let out a strangled howl, his body bucking in protest. Blood splattered across England's arms and he was shouting something that never even fully registered in own mind.

Matthew's arm tightened around Alfred's shoulders, his other hand going down to his brother's swollen belly, whispering something in the trembling nation's ear. _Push._

America pushed.

'It'll be okay,' Arthur repeated to himself, silently, and the voice in his head sounded like America. He couldn't look at Alfred, gaze caught on the sight of not one, but two tiny feet. America strained, gasped and Arthur could feel the exact moment when something finally gave. Two days of labor and it was like a cork popping off a bottle... just that quick. He held something small and slippery in his shaking palms, beneath the blood - so much blood - he could see a thatch of blonde plastered to the baby's forehead. A boy.

A boy who wasn't breathing. A boy who lay limp in his hands. His fears realized.

"Arthur..." His heart skittered in his chest as he recognized America's voice, but just barely. He'd never heard him so soft. "Give him to me... I need to touch him..." Alfred was pale - too pale - reaching out for the baby England was still holding. Arthur didn't want to hand the already weakened nation a dead child. It would be Kansas all over again. Worse.

"In a moment, America." He half turned away from the nation on the bed, as though he could hide the truth for a little longer. The sound of Matthew cursing set his heart racing again, Arthur darting a sharp glance towards the two and freezing as he put all the pieces he'd been seeing throughout this entire ordeal together.

Too much blood... and Alfred too still among the sheets, barely breathing. Matt was trying to stem the flow and Arthur could feel the nation's panic as a physical presence, pounding at him like the wings of a frantic butterfly.

Cold certainty unraveled itself in Arthur's belly, keeping him rooted in place. He'd been right. He'd always thought he'd be happy to be right when dealing with his presumptuous former colony... but America was dying, his child already dead, and England had only ashes where his triumph should have been. Dimly he was aware of Matthew trying to get his attention, that Alfred had either passed out or else stopped breathing entirely, and all Arthur could do was cradle the baby and shift up the bed to sit beside America's head.

"You need to help me, Arthur! He's going to bleed out!" Disbelief and denial colored Canada's expression as England reached out a hand to halt his ministrations. Matthew must have known the inevitable, but he struggled against it, something like betrayal in his eyes. So young.

Canada's eyes closed, head turned away a little, shoulders trembling. He wasn't crying, exactly, just shaking. He looked so much like a child in that moment that Arthur wanted to wrap him up in a hug – missing the days when he could simply kiss a hurt and make it better.

"It'll be okay..." He repeated, Alfred's assurance to him. It was still a lie. He brushed a few damp strands back from where they'd fallen across Alfred's forehead, leaving bloody streaks in his wake. Then, with infinite care, he tucked the baby into America's arms. "...idiot..." This wasn't a fairytale. A happy ending was not a requirement.

A soft noise drew him out of his stupor, and he looked to America, wondering if it was over yet. Green eyes widened, his breath escaped to somewhere unattainable as he saw the hint of movement. The baby tucked against Alfred's chest was moving weakly, nuzzling his face against America's chest.

"Oh my god..." So inarticulate, but the best he could manage.

Alive. The baby was _alive_. It meant something, he was sure. The feeling in his chest was no longer the tearing agony of earlier, even if it was only lessened and not gone.

A pair of blue eyes slowly opened, dazed, and Arthur wasn't sure if it was a good sign or not. Alfred blinked, the movement sluggish, then his head tilted a little, nuzzling into the soft fuzz of the baby's hair. "He's beautiful..." The rasp of Alfred's voice was so soft, he couldn't be sure he'd actually heard it – except that it sent a jolt through him that couldn't be explained by anything else. America was not in a good way, but he was conscious at least. The fears that Arthur had felt overwhelming him moments before were pushed aside by his need – he could hear his voice yelling at Matthew for bandages, but he was removed from the situation. England was outside of himself, looking in at a stranger with his own voice, who trying to save the life of his ex-colony. The composure of this stranger stunned him, when he knew he would have been brimming with frustration, with desperation.

He bandaged as much as he could, cleaning up a few of the newer burns and gashes while he was tending to America. Canada was gently wiping his brother's face and cheeks with a damp rag, the twins' eyes meeting in a way that would have made his insides twist if he'd been able to focus on it England lowered his head a fraction as they kissed - just the barest brush of lips, but so tender it made him ache.

Then he felt the touch of America's fingers in his hair, carding through the blonde strands, and he looked up despite himself. "Arthur." And America smiled, as unperturbed as though he wasn't still in danger of bleeding to death... like all the things before were all just a moment of craziness and now that it was past, everything was right with the world. If only it could be so simple. Alfred's smile was warm, tired, and he held out the newborn to England with pride gleaming in his eyes. 'Look what I've done," his expression said, and Arthur trembled as he took the tiny infant into his arms. His breath caught again as the baby shifted and blinked blearily up at him, eyes as green as the wide open plains.

Arthur kissed the baby, feeling the emotion radiating from America, basking in it... And even if it wasn't what he wanted, it was still so much more than he'd ever expected...

Canada was dragging the bloodstained sheets away, pulling out the spares and tucking America gently into the fabric. There was still worry in his gaze, in the gingerness of every touch, but Arthur was still wrapped up in America's contentment. "Arthur..." Matthew's voice, soft. "Get cleaned up."

It wasn't until he had his hands in the basin of water in the washroom that he realized he was still soaked in Alfred's blood. With a shudder, he tore out of the shirt. Even if it was still salvageable, he could never wear it again. It took several rinsings before the water came away clean. Raking a hand through his damp hair, Arthur sighed, looking at his own reflection in the mirror. His sense of euphoria had melted away, leaving him lingering at the edge of depression. He was going to have to go home as soon as America was out of danger and Canada would be staying.

The thought he hadn't wanted to think finally hit him with a vengeance. Canada would be staying because he and America were in love.

They were _in love_...

He didn't want it to sink in... but he had no desire to be a coward either. Stepping out of the washroom, he paused to take a look at the two, already curled up together on the bed. Matthew was stroking gentle circles along Alfred's belly, singing something in French that Arthur thought was a lullaby. Both of them looked up as he stepped into the room and he hesitated, looking between the two of them. Then Alfred smiled again, giving a slight tip of his head to the other side of the bed in invitation. Arthur felt heat creeping into his cheeks, looked to Matthew, and was surprised to see Canada giving him a thoughtful stare.

"It's okay, Arthur." Matthew nuzzled his cheek against Alfred's hair. "You don't have to go." England glanced from one twin to the other, tongue flicking across his lips. Canada was so much harder for him to read than his brother... At the very least, there was nothing condemning in Matthew's gaze, even as Arthur cautiously eased into place on Alfred's other side. He brushed his fingers along America's shoulder, barely daring to touch him. It was a strange feeling, to be stretched out beside the two, the baby cradled against Alfred's chest mouthing at the young nation's bare skin and making muffled murmuring sounds.

A heavy head tipped gradually onto his shoulder and he struggled to keep from jumping as Alfred nuzzled sleepily into his neck. "Told you it would be okay." Somehow America still managed to sound a little smug, but England didn't dare swat him so he had to settle for rolling his eyes.

"Self-centered git." He couldn't help his smile. As Alfred dozed against his shoulder, he looked up at Matt, who was smiling at his brother, one hand stroking through Alfred's blonde hair. Canada raised his eyes slowly and their gazes met, locked for a few seconds.

Despite his fears, the words Matthew whispered were far from condemnation. "Thank you Arthur..." He pressed a kiss to his twin's forehead and murmured. "You should sleep. I'll keep an eye on things."

"But..."

"Sleep." As soft as it was, the words were still a command. Letting out his breath in a shaking sigh, Arthur shifted, easing closer to America. One hand rested tentatively on Alfred's middle as he settled into place. He didn't think he'd be able to sleep - not with the churning sensation that was making a mess of his insides, not under Canada's gentle but watchful gaze.

He didn't think he could but sleep crept up on him slowly, stealing away his senses and luring him into dreams of 'what-ifs' and 'could-have-beens'.

Translation:

"Peut importe c'qui arrive, j'vais être là. Je l'promets." is "No matter what happens, I'll be here. I promise"

-

Author's notes: Just one more chapter to go. Technically, this could be considered the ending and the next chapter an epilogue, but I didn't want to just end it here. The next bit will wrap a few other things up.

So... in the process of writing this, I actually cut out several scenes and changed a few scenes that did make it into the story around rather significantly. I was thinking about including some of these deleted and alternate scenes after the last chapter is posted. What do you guys think?


	8. Chapter 8

The Burdens We Bear

~ Epilogue ~

- June 23, 1865 -

The war was over.

In all honesty, Arthur wasn't sure what he'd expected to happen... when the last of the Confederates had finally acknowledged their surrender, he'd kind of thought... well...

What? That everything would go back to normal? Past experience had taught him a long time ago that it was never so easy. Alfred was still weak, still sick from the turmoil and the battles. The Civil War had been more costly to him than any other disaster America had ever faced. Even now, there was no reassurance that things would work out - a divide existed that hadn't been there before.

The states were convening to decide the fate of their brothers and sisters. They had drawn together a council and Arthur knew the source of Alfred's anxiety had nothing to do with his own wounds, for once. They were deciding America's fate and they hadn't told him to come. West Virginia was tucked into his crib, sleeping, and none of the gathered nations dared speak loud enough for fear of waking the baby.

"I'm sure they don't mean to leave you out, Al," Matthew said, his tone soothing. And on the one hand, his words were sound - America didn't need to get into a confrontation now. The fighting had stopped... for all intents and purposes, Alfred was safe.

"What they meant isn't the issue," Arthur's own views had been made painfully clear - if America wanted to keep this from happening again, he needed to take a hand in things and nip them in the bud while he still could. For a nation to be left out of something that so intrinsically concerned him... well, it was a negative sign at best.

"Enough." Arthur and Matthew both turned to look at him. America swayed on his feet, a shadow of himself. Wounds crisscrossed his body - gashes, burns and darkening bruises all warring for space. He shouldn't have been up at all - it looked like a breeze would blow him over. But his blue eyes glittered with determination and fever and Arthur's words died in his throat.

"Alfred?" Matthew. So soft.

"Enough!" It wasn't quite a yell, but it didn't have to be. There was steel behind that word. "You're both right. This has to end, one way or another."

England didn't like the sound of that, or the way America stiffly pulled on his uniform. "And just what are you planning?"

America didn't look at him. "I'm going to do what I should've done a long time ago." When he turned back towards the other two nations, there was a slight twist to his lips that Arthur couldn't read. "I've let this go on far too long."

"But it's already over, Alfred. They surrendered."

"They might have surrendered Mattie, but it's not over." America gathered West Virginia into his arms, pushed past Canada and England, paused in the doorway. "I know my children. I think it's about time they knew me." He turned his back on them and kept walking, not waiting to see if they followed.

And they did, a moment later.

-

They'd gathered all in one place, to decide what was to be done with the Confederate captives. After five years of the war, even the most cheerful states had a grim, weary air to them. Some of them looked almost as bad as America himself, bruised and bloody. Several of the Southern states sported fresh burns from Sherman's march. Curled up in a huddle together, Kentucky and Maryland watched their arguing siblings with blank looks on their faces.

Arthur could see what Alfred had been talking about now, in the way the states looked at each other: the smoldering anger of Virginia, the dark promise in Texas. Delaware, New York and Massachusetts were convening, talking together in hushed tones as their fellow Union states looked on. The divide was as clear as if they'd drawn a line across the floor.

"Now that we've talked, we have a list of conditions for the Confederates," New Jersey announced, stepping forward from the pack. "In as much as you have surrendered to our forces - and given the nature of your trespasses against the United States of America - we intend to implement certain restrictions until such time as we deem the former Confederate States ready and willing to be reinstated as full members of the Union.

"First, that all former Confederate States must adopt the policies set into place by a council of representatives of our choosing."

Oh Lord... It was impossible to miss the way the Confederates bristled at that demand, several of them clenching fists or reaching for the firearms that had thankfully already been confiscated.

"Second, that all former Confederate States assume a debt for their drain on the National Treasury that supersedes any personal or prior debt until payment is complete. This debt will accrue interest, so we encourage all former Confederate States to repay their designated amounts as expediently as possible.

Several states paled at that, especially Georgia. Given the way they'd been razed toward the end of the war, it was unlikely that they would have the capacity to repay a debt of any size for some time, even without the welfare of their own people to think about.

"Third, that no former Confederate State be allowed to fly the Stars and Bars, the Stainless Banner or any other Confederate flag, and that no Confederate State be allowed to display or fly any personal banner until it has undergone an approval process by our council to ensure it contains no subversive or potentially offensive material-"

New Jersey wasn't allowed to finish, his words cut off by the surge of outrage from the captive states. They could take being thrashed. They could take the levied taxes and even the humiliation of having a stacked council to scrutinize their every decision. But they could not - would not - stand to be told that they couldn't fly their colors.

"You fuckin' bastard!" Texas roared, jolting to his feet.

"You're one to be calling someone else a bastard," New York smiled sweetly, an expression that never touched the vicious glint in his eyes. "At least his father wasn't some filthy sub-nation." Texas wasn't the only one to react at that - California sent a hot glare at New York as well, fellow Union state or not.

Texas breathed hard. Once. Twice. Then he lunged at New York, plowing into his older brother and snarling something incomprehensible in Spanish. All of the others were on their feet immediately, prepared to begin beating each others' brains out again.

"Don't you dare." The voice was soft, but it cut through the room like a length of taut wire. It took Arthur a moment to recognize it. The states froze, looked at Alfred, uncertainty flitting across their faces. America never flinched, tucking West Virginia into Matthew's arms before moving towards the knot of states. They parted to clear a path for him as he approached.

New York and Texas both pulled away from each other, panting and bloody.

"He attacked me." New York swiped at his bleeding lip with the back of one hand, his tone defensive but smug. "You see how ungrateful they are? Here we are trying to be generous with them and they just-"

"Shut it." And when New York simply gaped at him, Alfred repeated himself. "Shut up and sit down!" His eyes raked over his assembled children and he noted Texas' wide smirk. "I mean all of you. Get that smile off your face!"

"But..." Arthur couldn't even tell which of the states said that.

"No." America rounded on the lot of them. "There are no 'buts'. There's no 'ifs'. No 'maybes' or excuses, or any of the bullcrap you're using to try and justify what you're doing. You'll sit, and this time you will listen to me."

England watched, green eyes widening as the states sank onto the nearest flat surfaces: couches, chairs, even a couple who flopped down to sit on the floor. None of them said a word. New York leaned against the wall and California eased onto the ornate desk. Texas was the only one who didn't budge - ever the stubborn one. Once the scraping and shuffling had ceased, America addressed them again.

His voice was still quiet - his first words not what anyone expected - and still they cut to the core. "I'm sorry." And why, Arthur wondered, why should he be sorry when it was his states who'd been doing their best to kill him? The older nation swallowed past the lump in his throat, curling his fingers into his palms and biting back the questions. It wasn't his place to ask, this time. "I'm sorry this had to happen - that it had to take this..." America's voice faltered for just a second, not quite a choke. "- all of this.... for me to do something about it. I've failed you." The states looked as surprised as Arthur felt - but when he glanced over at Canada, he saw only a slight, sad little smile.

"But you have to understand, too. You all think of yourselves as being apart but you're not. You can fight it all you want, but it doesn't make any difference." A soft noise of disdain from someone and America's eyes narrowed. He shrugged out of his uniform jacked with only a slight wince. Red was already seeping through the white shirt beneath it and he paid it no mind. Buttons flew as he became impatient, simply tearing out of it. Beneath, his body was a road map of injuries. Arthur could hear a couple of muffled gasps - he caught a glimpse of Georgia tracing the livid burns all along her arms that found their echoes on America's body. It was all there - every wound they'd dealt each other, standing out on the nation's skin in stark accusation.

"Even if I could... I'm not here to lecture you." England could hear the smile in America's voice. "I'm just here to let you know that you have a choice." He sounded far too cheerful... Arthur felt his skin crawling at that tone.

"What choice?" Texas asked the question that was on everyone's lips.

"This thing, this union, is not transient - can't you see?" He gestured to his wounds. "The union is everything, or it's nothing. You shy away from it-" A glance at Virginia, who couldn't meet his eyes, "- but I know you know it's true. You can't be free of me. There's only one way."

A chill crept down Arthur's back as Alfred spoke, grim certainty building in him, his fears culminating when Alfred tugged a knife from his belt and held it out in open invitation.

When Texas, who was the closest, hesitated to take it, America flipped the knife around, pressed it hilt-first into the state's open hand. "What's this for?"

"I said you had a choice, didn't I?" America's voice was cool. "You had to know that it would come to this. You've been trying to kill me one drop of blood at a time because none of you could bring yourselves to just pull the trigger. Well, that's not an option anymore. Now you have to decide just what this means to you."

Arthur's muscles were frozen, he couldn't move, not even to protest. Why was Alfred pushing them?

America's voice was inexplicably gentle. "Do it. I won't stop you."_ If you're ready. _England could hear the rest of the words as easily as if Alfred had said them aloud. As if he trusted them to know when that was.

The states couldn't look at Alfred - a quick glance showed England that much - their heads were lowered, eyes darting anywhere but at their mother country. Texas hesitated, the moment drawing out thin. The opportunity passed in a heartbeat. America moved forward, one hand found the center of Texas' chest, pushed, and the state took a stumbling step backward.

A battle had been declared, waged and won. In the span of of a few minutes, Alfred had done what had taken the Union five years. England was reminded of the animal instinct - dominance and submission - as he watched each of the states approach America, downcast until he laid a gentle hand on each of them. A pat, a one armed hug. 'It's okay,' the silent assurances said, 'I'm not upset'. Texas was one of the last to go to Alfred, stiff-legged and wary. America patted him on the shoulder, the touch subtly different - the alpha acknowledging a potential rival - both of them knowing that this was a battle of wills for another day.

Virginia lingered behind until all of the others had cleared away, hands tugging at the edges of her long sleeves. When there was no one else between her and Alfred, she stepped forward, a jerkiness marring her normal elegance. She darted a glance at him, looking impossibly young. "Dad, I'm-" The words of apology were cut off as America pulled her into an encompassing hug.

"You don't have to say it." He murmured against her long, blonde hair, and from his vantage point, Arthur could see America's smile. "I was never angry with you." Virginia nodded a little, face still buried against the crook of America's neck. When she finally pulled away, there was a suspicious dampness lingering on her cheeks, but no one pointed it out.

When she gathered back with the others, Alfred ran one hand through his hair, looking at each of them. "I don't care what it takes... we'll make this work." He darted a glance towards the Union States. "We're still a family." None of them spoke to refute him, and he gave a small nod, satisfied. Arthur caught a faint hint of a wince on his face and thought it was about time to put this whole debacle to an end. Discussing internal politics could come later. Couldn't they see Alfred needed rest?

"Alfred..."

He was about to say something, when America swayed on his feet, his weakness more evident now than it had been before. One hand rose to cover his eyes, just for a second. "It's fine..." He murmured, when Arthur made a sound of protest. Alfred shifted, putting his back to the wall as though it could offer some support. Fine? Fine was not the word. It wasn't until he sank slowly to the floor that it really registered just how 'not fine' America was. Alfred's children clustered around him, concern humming in the air, and Arthur caught glimpses of blood - America's white shirt stained crimson, tossed aside. Someone calling for bandages.

Arthur started forward with some vague notion of brushing the states aside and helping Alfred himself. Hadn't they done enough already? Just because America had forgiven them didn't mean that he had to. A hand on his arm stopped him and he turned to see Canada. Matthew didn't look at him, didn't move to help America, and England bristled at his touch. "Get your hands off me!" When Canada didn't release him, he shot the younger nation a glare. "I thought you loved him," he accused, some part of him wanting to feel vindicated. What justification could Matthew have, if he didn't even love Alfred enough to try and save his life?

"I do." Canada's voice was soft. "But it's not as simple as that."

"It seems simple to me," Arthur rebuffed. "If you love someone, you anything you need to do to keep them." Safe, he meant to add. Anything you need to do to keep them safe. His words were equal parts possessiveness and accusation. 'You'll take Alfred from me but you won't take care of him?' There was no use denying the words he wanted to say, so he spat them out before they could poison him. "He's yours, damn you! Won't you even fight for him?"

"No." England had been expecting denial of his words, anger. He wasn't sure what to do in the face of this calm. "He's not mine, Arthur. He was _never_ mine." But he was, he had to be. Because he wasn't England's, no matter how much Arthur wanted it.

Arthur's mouth opened and no words came out.

"You really don't see it?" For a wild moment, Arthur thought Matthew was going to confirm his deepest hopes - that it was him. That America wanted him. He needed to hear those words, ached to hear them. "He belongs to them, Arthur. He always will." England's gaze followed Canada's to where the states were tending to America. He wanted to refute the words but he couldn't. Matthew was right.

England hated them all for a second, Matt, for pointing it out, the states for having America, even Alfred. He hated loving Alfred... how it made it so hard to hate him.

His own voice reached his ears, small and lost. "I never thought I'd love something so much..." His eyes followed the states as they carefully lifted America, "...that I'd come to hate it too."

"I'm sorry." Canada sounded sympathetic, but not remorseful. He wasn't sorry... not really.

The states carried Alfred, looking too much like pallbearers to Arthur. America was so still, almost as much as he'd been that day two years ago when England had been ready to give up on him. For all their strife, they moved as one, a protective knot of bodies. Even with several of them wounded and barely able to support themselves, Arthur would not have tried getting between them and America now.

With Alfred laid out upon the bed, Arthur could finally see what America's children had done to save his life. His breath caught somewhere behind the lump in his throat.

Lacking any bandages, the states had not hesitated. It took Arthur a moment to recognize the torn swathes, red and white, the occasional hint of blue, of stars. America was bandaged in the flags of his states, Union and Confederate alike.

'That's how it should be.' The little voice in Arthur's head that sounded like America murmured, 'Just like this.'

England approached the side of the bed, ruffling Alfred's hair with gentle fingers. "I suppose you're right, just this one time," He whispered, "But don't let it go to your head." Matthew dragged a chair to the opposite side and the two of them waited together in silence.

-

It took the rest of the day and most of the night before Alfred woke. Arthur was dozing, his upper half resting on the bed, when he felt the shift of someone moving. He raised his head, blinking blearily, then sat up so quickly it made his back ache. America was already up - standing barefoot on the polished wood, clad only in swathes of torn flags. England wanted to say something, but as America turned, gaze flitting over him, he felt his voice escape. He might as well have not even been there, for all the acknowledgement Alfred gave him. Canada came up beside him, resting a gentle hand on his arm and Arthur found himself grateful for the reassurance.

He was conscious of the fact that America shouldn't even have been on his feet right now, a fact that went ignored by the nation in question. Ignoring both his own injuries - he was swaying on his feet, for god's sake - and his complete lack of suitable dress, Alfred was padding towards the door. It took Arthur a moment or two to gather up his wits enough to follow.

Down the hallway, they went, finding themselves at the head of an odd, silent parade. The mansion attached to the meeting house was one of many that Alfred owned, although not one he normally occupied. It was easily large enough to accommodate all of his states and more than a few guests. Each door they passed yielded another curious state to add to the procession. By the time they reached the foyer, they'd gathered all but West Virginia, Nevada and Kansas, both tucked away in their cribs.

It was raining outside, but only lightly. The air was cool, still smelling of dew and wet moss as Alfred opened the front door. Dawn touched the air with pink and gold, and Arthur felt no surprise - but perhaps a bit of alarm - as America wandered further, out into the quiet stillness of a rainy morning. None of the others followed, the states glancing at each other before migrating back into the house. If there'd been some signal to inspire this, Arthur would never know. He stepped out onto the porch himself - feeling the slight shift of air that meant Matthew was still at his back.

A hand on his shoulder stopped him before he could leave the covered area and Arthur drew to a halt. "What is he doing?" His voice pitched low, as though speaking too loud would hurt somehow. Matthew said nothing, but Arthur caught a hint of a smile from the corner of his eye.

The bandages were loosening with the damp and the motion. Alfred turned his face to the sky, rain glistening on his cheeks, plastering his blonde hair to his head until he looked like a drowned puppy. But he was smiling...

He was smiling, and it was radiant.

The first of the bandages slid to the ground and others followed. One at a time they fell, leaving hints of skin in their stead. Piece by piece, until America stood there, bare to the elements. He was a wild thing still, it occurred to Arthur, you could dress Alfred up in all the fanciness you pleased - try to teach him to be a gentleman, even - but you could never change what was underneath.

_This. Oh, __**this**__... _

As the rain washed away the last lingering traces of blood, Arthur could see the injuries across his body - they looked somehow softened in the light of morning. It took a second for him to register that they were less than they'd been before. Not gone - injuries like that were never truly gone, as Arthur's own scars could attest - but not open and bleeding any longer.

Alfred turned to look at the two nations on the porch and Arthur's heart stuttered in his chest at the serene expression on his face. The breeze at his back told him that Matt was moving, down the stairs of the porch and out into the rain, wrapping his brother up in a hug that Alfred returned with a peal of joyous laughter. Arthur hesitated a second longer, feeling the droplets of rain against his face as he stood just below the overhang. He was remembering another day in the rain, a declaration of liberty, a broken heart.

He didn't remember stepping out into the elements, even afterwards, only the wet warmth of a pair of arms around him, America kissing his cheek and whispering words just for him, "You can't hold on to your pain forever, Arthur."

Before he could ask, Alfred pulled away from him, flashed that familiar grin. "You're getting soaked out here, Mattie! Didn't Arthur ever teach you to go in out of the rain?" His words were gently teasing as he wrapped an arm around each of their shoulders. "C'mon. I'll take care of you two this time. Smile, Arthur."

'Only fairytales get happy endings', Arthur thought, not without a hint of wryness, 'but I suppose settling for a happy 'to be continued' isn't such a bad thing, sometimes... Life doesn't have to always be great or terrible, sometimes it's just good. And good is okay.'

And he smiled, despite himself.

_Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal._

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- **and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.  
**

-End-

Notes:

Lee surrendered on April 9, 1865, but it wasn't until June 23, 1865 that the last Confederate General surrendered to Union forces. Amusingly, the last Confederate ship sailed all the way to England before surrendering on November 6th. For simplicity's sake, I went with the last General to surrender.

Nevada was born Oct 31, 1964, but I felt taking time out to write his/her birth would hinder the flow of the story so I left it out. I may write it later though - Halloween babies are neat.

For those wondering about the lack of Canada in this ending, I have an alternate ending from Canada's point of view - I intend to post it with the deleted scenes. I just felt England's ending was less... um.... depressing.

Last but not least, the quote at the end is the Gettysburg Address.


	9. Chapter 9

Deleted Scenes

"Egypt"

Originally I wrote this to show some of America's viewpoint on his children and himself and to give England a bit more screentime. However, it felt awkward shoehorned in after the birth scene and didn't really fit in the epilogue so I cut it. It was also a bit of a downer.

- June 22, 1863 -

America's silence was beginning to unnerve him. Arthur darted a glance at his former colony, who paid him no mind, only rocking slowly with West Virginia cradled to his chest, nursing quietly. Aside from the stresses of his birth, the boy was a little darling. Even with the war still raging, Alfred looked... whole... with his tiny son in his arms. England knew now the child was his, with that same deep seated instinct that had told him that Kansas was not - but he didn't think he'd ever be certain if it had been deliberate on America's part or if he'd just gotten lucky in the seed donor lottery. One thing was clear, he had no intention of asking.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair and approaching the bed. America looked up at him as he sat down, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Arthur."

"Alfred." He paused, not certain what to say. The look on America's face was a familiar one - something he'd seen back when other nation had been just a very small colony. "What's wrong?"

"Hmm... nothing." Alfred ducked his head a little to nuzzle at West Virginia's hair, perhaps sensing that England wasn't going to buy his innocent routine now any more than he had when America was small. "I was just thinking."

'Something not too pleasant, I'd wager,' Arthur thought, but aloud he only said, "What about?"

"Egypt."

There were times, even now, when Alfred still managed to throw him for a loop. "Egypt?" It took a few seconds to get over his surprise enough to add anything more. "What about him?"

"Not him. Her." Arthur's brow's furrowed, and Alfred clarified, "His mother."

"Ancient Egypt?" The older nation repeated, still lost. America had never even met Ancient Egypt - she'd been dead and faded away long before the European nations had ever set foot in the west, ages before most of them had even been nations. Greece might have known her once, or possibly even the Italies, but not Arthur. Definitely not Alfred. "Why would you be thinking about her?"

A tiny smile tugged at the corners of America's lips. "I wonder if she was like America." He chuckled a second at the sour face England was giving him. "Native America... our mother. She wasn't really called that, you know. She never had just one name."

Native America. England had never even believed she was real - back in the early days of colonization of the Americas, some of the countries had claimed to catch glimpses of a dark-skinned, dark-eyed woman, but he'd always thought it was complete bullocks, especially after finding baby America. He'd never seen her and America had never spoken of her with him.

"I don't remember her very well. Matt and Juan and I all took care of ourselves for the most part," Alfred admitted, "We didn't think much of it. Then you came, Arthur, and you were just so... different and cool. And you found me and really wanted to be my brother, and I was so happy." He grinned, ever foolish, and England felt his insides turning into warm goo. It was so rare for America to reminisce on their years together with fondness rather than resentment. "But she did love us - I know she did. She was always there." Alfred looked down at the baby in his arms, carefully untangling one hand to stroke West Virginia's hair. "And then one day I thought about her and went to find her and she wasn't there. Wasn't anywhere."

He'd never asked before, what had spurred America on his frantic drive to the west. England had gone back to Europe one day, leaving a sweet little colony behind, and when he'd returned he'd found a tall stranger where that child had been. Not a man quite yet, but not a boy anymore either... America had stolen his heart again, differently this time, the two of them twining together in the dark and the silence, the lust and shame twisting in Arthur's gut.

...returning again to a brood of colonies that proved unequivocally that Alfred was not a child.

England cleared his throat, "I'm sorry." He wasn't sure what else to say to that.

"Don't be." Alfred smiled, reaching out to pat at Arthur's arm. "I think I understand better now than I used to. That's what got me thinking about Egypt." Before England could ask anything more, he continued, "Did she want to hold on to him and never let go... her baby? They've gotten so big but they're still children, they still need me."

The lump in his throat made it hard to swallow but he managed to force words out past it, "They might be children now, Alfred, but it won't stay that way. They won't stand to kowtow to you the rest of their lives." He knew that all too well, from his own experiences. The states had too much of America in them, they wouldn't tolerate a yoke forever, not even one born of love.

"I know." The ease of Alfred's reply caught him off guard and he blinked at the younger nation owlishly. "I wouldn't want them to. But not now... let them be children just a little longer. I'm not ready yet. It's not time..." He shifted West Virginia in his arms and Arthur had to strain to hear the words as America whispered to his son. "Who will you be Kanahwa? Will they whisper your name someday and make the heavens tremble?"

Something about America's tone sent shivers down England's spine - echoes of Ancient Rome, of the Persian Empire, all wrapped together in a soft blanket of parental pride. He didn't know America. Even having raised him, having loved him...

'Why do you do this to yourself?' He thought, turning away from the serene picture of mother and baby. 'Is anything worth this?'

Arthur thought of a sweet blonde boy with a smile that gave meaning to the chaos of the world, of the many things he wanted that could never be his. He thought of his children, their futures still beyond his sight - stretching far out to infinity. An unbroken line. He was part of it... nothing would change that.

'It has to be.'

-End-

-"Egypt" Notes-

Can anyone see the hints of Imperial!America?

To clarify: There seem to be few parent nations in Hetalia who coexist with their offspring before fading away - Ancient Rome, Ancient Greece and Ancient Egypt being the only three I know for sure. The way Rome operated, having several 'grandchildren' that comprised his territories and eventually replaced him when he faded, reminded me a little of the situation with America and his states, only kind of bleak. So that was the sort of echo I was going for with this. Essentially in this, America, in one of his strange moments, imagines his states as future nations and wonders what they'll be like. That's the other reason I didn't include it, it felt far too bleak and would have dragged down the (at least) semi-optimistic ending I was aiming for.


End file.
